


Behind the Curtain

by ACertainZest



Category: Castle
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-10-28
Packaged: 2018-04-24 17:22:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 61,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4928476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACertainZest/pseuds/ACertainZest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU: Still in mourning a year after her mother's murder, 20-year-old Kate Beckett tries to drown her sorrows in a hot encounter with a ruggedly handsome stranger. She figures she'll never see him again....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Favor

"Ugh, David, what I am even doing here?" Kate Beckett grouses as her friend pulls her from rack to rack in the department store.

"Come on, Becks, you _promised_."

"I know, but I wasn't thinking about dresses when I agreed to this. Can't I just wear, like, a pantsuit?"

David gives her an extremely skeptical look. "You have a pantsuit?" She huffs and looks away. "I didn't think so. I doubt you have anything in your closet that isn't denim or leather." He sifts quickly through the racks of dresses. "Here's one. A nice forest green to go with your eyes. And ooh, silk, feel how soft. What do you think?"

"It's too girly," she complains, fidgeting. She's antsy to get out of here. Department stores remind her of mom. Hell, it's been a year and a half, and still everything reminds her of mom.

"It's a _dress_ , Becks. It's gonna be girly. Kinda the whole point." David drags her over to the changing room. "Go in and try it on."

"Remind me again why I agreed to this?" she calls as she closes herself into the stall. David's voice floats through the door.

"Because of the free food and booze."

She snorts, kicking off her shoes. "Not likely."

"Because you're tired of spending every Saturday night trawling the seedy bars looking for one-night stands."

"Shut up," she grumps, her cheeks heating up. She pulls her t-shirt off more forcefully than necessary.

"Because you're a super sweet friend and you knew I needed a plus-one for the wedding. Because my parents will kill me if I don't go to my stupid cousin's stupid wedding."

"And they'll double kill you if you show up with your boyfriend," Kate sighs. Guilt makes her bite her lip, scowling as she shimmies out of her tight jeans. Her mom is dead and David can't come out to his parents. Life sucks.

She opens the door a moment later and lets David look at her in the green dress. He beams and practically claps his hands with glee.

"Oh, Kate, it's so gorgeous. You look gorgeous in it. Don't you love it?"

"It's okay," she mutters, trying not to look at herself in the mirror. Mom would have loved this dress on her. Mom almost never got to see Kate in a dress after she hit puberty.

David catches her mood and tamps down his enthusiasm. "Oh, honey. Come on, take it off. I'll pay for it, we'll find some killer shoes to match, and then we'll go get a beer."

"Now you're talking." She closes the stall door again and carefully removes the dress. She stares at it on its hanger as she pulls her regular clothes back on. How can something so soft make her feel so hardened?

* * *

Kate stands in front of the mirror in her dorm room, wearing the green dress. But she's not looking at her reflection. She's looking at her mother's engagement ring, lying on her palm. Such a tiny scrap of metal and rock, encoding so much emotion. 

Holding the ring, looking at the ring, brings a fresh surge of grief like a punch to the gut ... and an even fresher wave of guilt when she remembers how she behaved when she discovered what her dad had done with it. Left the ring sitting around on a side table, just tossed there like a piece of meaningless clutter. Kate winces, hard, at the one-two punch of anger and shame. Tries not to think about her dad's drooping, defeated face when she yelled at him. How he crumpled under her fury and muttered "I just didn't know what to do with it" and then retreated back into his bottle of whiskey.

In the moment, she thought it was the stupidest thing she had ever heard, and said so. She winces again. That's maybe the worst part, because now, a few days later, standing here before her mirror, she doesn't know what to do with it either. Her mother's ring.

She picks it up and turns it over and over, the sparkle stinging her eyes. She can't slide it onto one of her fingers; that would be ... obscene, somehow. Maybe she'll get a chain so she can wear it around her neck like a pendant.

The thought of a necklace jolts her back to here and now. Startled, she looks up at her reflection. Right, the wedding. David will be here to pick her up any minute. 

She puts the ring gently back into the little velvet box she got for it, and sets it carefully aside. The grief punches her again as she closes the box but she won't cry, not now. She can't. Her makeup is already done and she can't have puffy eyes at the wedding. She takes a deep, trembling breath. 

From another jewelry box she produces a pair of earrings that go well enough with the dress. She puts them in quickly while checking her hair and makeup in the mirror. Tries a smile. The girl in the mirror looks nicely put-together, ready to go out and enjoy herself. 

She looks at her bare neck and considers trying to dig up a necklace, but decides not to. Now that she's got into her head the idea of wearing her mom's ring as a pendant, anything else around her neck feels like betrayal. She supposes that's probably dumb, but who cares? If anyone at the wedding is going to judge her for not having a necklace on, let them.

She turns her back on the mirror and reaches for her shoes.

* * *

"Oh god, what was I thinking? I can't do this," Kate says for the dozenth time as David pulls the car into the valet parking line.

"You can, Becks. You're fine. You look great, and all you have to do is hang on my arm and be polite. Maybe smile once in a while?" he teases gently. She rolls her eyes sourly.

"And eat cake. There better be cake," she grumbles.

"It's a freakin' wedding, of course there will be cake!" David winks at her. "And hey, maybe you'll even meet someone. You don't have to leave with me if something better comes along."

"In this crowd? Yeah, right." She scowls out the window at the fancy hotel, undoubtedly full of snooty snobs, and thinks longingly of her favorite bar. Of the hot bikers in leather jackets who go there to drink and shoot pool and maybe get laid. She could be there right now, bending over the pool table in her tight jeans with every eye in the place glued to her ass, getting wasted and having her pick of evening companion. Finding someone to fuck her into one more night's worth of oblivion.

But no, instead here she is on a Saturday night at a wedding full of pretentious jerks, in this stupid dress and these stupid earrings and these stupid four-inch stiletto heels (okay, she actually really likes the shoes) and oh god, her hair. "Shit, David, my hair." She pulls down the visor to look in the mirror.

"Your hair is fine, honey, calm down. It was fine when we left the dorm and it's still fine." He takes a deep breath. "Okay. Showtime."

Kate sits in the passenger seat and waits for David to come around and open the door for her, while the valet slides into the driver's seat. "Okay," she repeats, "showtime." She follows David's example and takes a deep breath of her own, tucking her clutch under her arm, getting out of the car. 

She can do this. It's all just pretend. Pretend to be David's girlfriend. Pretend to be the kind of girl who goes to snooty weddings in a fancy dress. Pretend to be a girl without a mom-shaped hole in her life.

"Ready?" he asks, sounding just as nervous as she feels.

"Ready." She gives him what she hopes is a realistic look of simpering adoration. He blinks in surprise, then relaxes, smiling slightly. She takes his arm and they walk inside.

* * *

It's not so bad, really, once she gets past feeling like an impostor in the dress. She survives being introduced to what seems like dozens of David's relatives, all of whom say things like _it's about time he met a nice girl_ and _you two look so cute together_ , at which she does her best not to roll her eyes. She fields _how did you two meet?_ easily, repeatedly; they met at college, have two classes together this semester, so she doesn't even have to lie. 

She zones out during the ceremony itself; the pageantry of marriage holds no interest for her, so she just sits straight in her chair, lets her eyes unfocus, and thinks about her coursework and where she might go on her motorcycle next weekend and whether she needs to do a grocery run tomorrow.

Then the ceremony is over and there's dinner, which she passes mostly in silence while David chats gamely with distant relatives around the table. She tries to smile and respond when they engage her in the conversation, but it's awkward. She drinks several glasses of champagne and is relieved when the band starts up and the newlyweds take to the dance floor, shortly followed by other couples.

"Come on, dance with me, Kate," David wheedles. She takes his hand and lets him lead. After a few songs he whispers in her ear, "Okay, you're off the hook. Go find someone to flirt with. I saw a few hotties at the singles table."

"David!" she scolds, just for appearance's sake. He grins.

"Have a little fun, girl. If I can't find you when I'm ready to leave, you can find your own way home. I'm going to chat up the two cousins I actually like." And he sets off into the crowd.

Kate makes her way over to the open bar and waits behind a crowd of already tipsy airheads who can't decide what to drink next. By the time she makes it to the front she's rolling her eyes and in no mood to be jostled against the bar by a large male presence that seems to come out of nowhere.

"Hey, watch it," she snaps. He looks back at her, startled, his elbow catching her shoulder as he turns.

"Oh, hey, sorry. Really sorry," he says smoothly, giving her a dazzling smile. She cocks her head slightly. He looks vaguely familiar, but she can't place him.

"Let me make it up to you by buying you a drink," he suggests. "What's your pleasure?" He manages to make that sound teasing, seductive, rather than crass; but she doesn't miss the way his eyes flicker down her body and back up again. That's nothing new -- she gets that from guys all the time -- but somehow she finds herself responding to his attention, and she thinks, what the hell, she might as well flirt a little and see where it goes. He's probably just another vacuous rich asshole, but you never know.

"Vodka tonic," she says, and hopes they won't card her. That would be embarrassing, even though she does have a pretty good fake ID.

But the man with the blue eyes and friendly smile just turns to repeat her order to the bartender, and a moment later he's steering her away from the bar with a courteous hand on her elbow, a glass in her other hand. His hands are big, she notices, to go along with his body size, tall and broad. In her heels she's just a couple of inches shorter than him. And he fills out his tux very nicely. Warmth is already pooling low in her belly before she even takes the first sip of her drink.

"The thing about weddings," he says as he guides her to a patch of open space next to the dance floor, "is that you can't use any of the usual lines. _Do you come here often?_ for example. Doesn't work."

She feels one corner of her mouth turning upward. "Do you find that that one works in other contexts? Because, no offense, it's pretty tired."

"Oh, it works well enough if you know how to pull it off," he replies easily, his eyes twinkling, his mischievous expression somehow making the words seem charming rather than arrogant.

"If you say so," she shrugs, affecting unconcern.

"I'm Rick, by the way."

"Kate." She sips her drink, enjoying the bite and the buzz.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Kate," and now his voice is low and silky, a seductive tone that sneaks across her skin and makes her tingle. Oh, he's good. Guys in biker bars are never this smooth.

"So," he continues, "bride's side or groom's side?"

"Oh -- groom, but I don't know him at all," she admits. "I'm just here as a favor for one of his cousins, my friend David." She sees him noticing that she didn't say _boyfriend_. His lips curve upward ever so slightly.

"I'm here as a favor also," he says, nodding. "Someone I work with is related to the bride and she didn't want to come alone." He lets his eyes drift over Kate's body again, not bothering to hide it. Normally she would shut that down fast, but somehow, tonight, here, from this man, it's exciting her. Her breathing has sped up already. She takes another gulp of her drink and enjoys the sensation of liquid courage flowing through her.

"Not gonna miss you, is she?" she asks, her voice coming out a bit lower and huskier than she intended, but what the hell. She likes the effect it has on him, the tiny quick inhale, the way his eyes flicker to her lips and up to her eyes and back down again.

"Nah," he says, still cool, in control of himself. "She's over there somewhere chatting with the aunties. I've discharged my duties as escort." He gives a little wink on the last word and she can't help laughing a little. It's so dorky, it shouldn't be cute, but somehow it is. Cute and hot.

"That's good. So, Rick, wanna dance?" She doesn't wait for an answer, just puts down her empty glass, turns her back on him, and slinks out onto the dance floor. She doesn't have to look back to know he's checking out her ass.

When she turns he's right there behind her, his arms already coming around her waist. She lets her hands settle on his chest and they move into the rhythm, bodies not quite touching ... yet. His hands rest lightly, politely at the small of her back, but she feels a slight tension in his arms and knows he's thinking about sliding them down to grab her ass. She looks up into his eyes and gives him a little smirk that says _I know what you're thinking about_. 

He gives back a matching grin and says, "I like your dress. So soft, and it looks really good on you." His eyes say something like _it would look better on the floor_ , although on second thought she knows that such a cheesy line would be beneath him. He's got more game than that.

"Thanks," she answers, and then gives a little gasp when he whirls her into a turn. The song has changed and the beat is a bit faster now. Rick takes her hand and spins her dramatically; his other arm sweeps out and narrowly misses clocking an elderly woman. Then he expertly whisks Kate back into his arms again. She's grinning, a little breathless, a little tipsy, and very much enjoying the nearness of his hard body.

"You almost bowled over grandma there," she giggles against his shoulder, and feels him chuckle.

"Mere illusion. I had my eye on her the whole time." His tone is light and she knows it's just a joke because his eyes were on _her_ , Kate, the whole time. She saw how his eyes darkened as he slid them over her body: the long line of her bare neck, the hint of cleavage, her legs that she knows look endless on these heels. She really likes these heels.

"So," he says after another moment of swaying sedately to the beat, "are you enjoying the wedding?"

Kate pulls back to look him in the eye. "Subtle. Why don't you say what you really mean -- _wanna get out of here?_ "

His eyes flash hotly. "I thought you'd never ask."

**To be continued...**


	2. Combustion

Rick follows Kate at a discreet distance while she retrieves her clutch purse from the table, and then they make their way toward the back of the ballroom, not touching except his hand politely on the small of her back, sending tingles of anticipation down her spine. Once out of sight of the crowd, they stumble haphazardly through an almost-hidden door on the back wall, which turns out to open on some kind of utility corridor, probably used by the hotel staff to move furniture around. Several more doors line the opposite wall, identical to the one they just came through.

Kate is looking around to get her bearings when Rick moves in front of her, the hand still on her back pulling her body hard against him, his other hand joining it. Immediately those firm hands slide down her back and grab her ass at last, squeezing slightly as he shoves her against the opposite wall.

"You've got a great ass," he rasps, and she rolls her eyes a little, because how many times has she heard that one? but she doesn't really mind because his hands are so broad and hot, and his body feels so good pressed against hers.

"Shut up," she breathes and grabs two handfuls of his hair, pulling his mouth to hers. He grunts and dives into the kiss, sucking her tongue into his mouth, yanking on her buttocks again to slide her against his thigh that he has somehow managed to insinuate between hers. He tastes like champagne, his mouth hot and delicious. She whines high in her throat at how good it is.

"I never shut up," he says into her lips, sucking in a harsh breath when she bites down on his lower lip. "Just fair warning, Kate. I like to talk."

"I don't care," she gasps, her head falling back against the wall as he trails his mouth down her neck. "I don't care, just don't stop."

"Oh, I won't," and he drags his tongue back up to find that spot behind her ear that makes her gasp again, "but maybe this door-"

"Yes-" and she twists the doorknob and they half-fall through the door into a darkened meeting room. 

"Perfect," he growls, and immediately he's got her up against the door again, one hand twisting the lock, the other leaving her butt and sliding up across her ribs to cup her breast, his thumb rubbing the nipple through the fabric of the green dress.

"Oh," she moans as his tongue drags across her jaw again. She pushes her hips against his thigh, one hand still clenched in his hair; slips the other between their bodies, under his cummerbund, to find the hard bulge below and rub the heel of her hand over it, firmly. He grunts into her neck and pulls back a little.

"God, you're hot." His voice is throaty and deep, shooting sparks through her. "You taste so good. I want to taste you some more. Can I?" His hand is on her thigh, lightly rubbing and moving slowly upward, making his meaning clear. He toys with the hem of her dress, watching her with the question in his eyes.

She quivers against the door, her whole body flushing hot. She never hears that, certainly not from the kind of guys who come to her favorite bar looking for a quick fuck against the wall. She's had guys in her bed who would, of course, but no one ever asked permission like this. No one ever looked like he actually wanted to do it ... hungered to do it.

"Table," she whispers, her voice shaky with desire. She gestures with her head toward the meeting table behind them. It looks sturdy. Rick glances over, looks back at her and grins wolfishly.

"Observant," he says approvingly. He turns her and pushes her against the table's edge. His big hands slide farther up her legs, under her dress, and suddenly she's really glad that she decided to wear the silky thong. She almost went with plain white cotton bikinis, oh god, what was she thinking? Not that she really expected ... anything like this ... when she was dressing for the wedding, but these days she's always ready.

Rick doesn't seem to care about her underwear, anyway. He tugs the thong down her ass and drops unhesitatingly to his knees, pulling it down the rest of the way, carefully working it past her stiletto heels. "These are great shoes," he says, looking up at her with a leer. "These should be in the dictionary next to the phrase 'fuck-me heels.'"

"Then maybe you should fuck me already," she shoots back, quirking an eyebrow. The sight of him on his knees between her legs in the dim light of the conference room is so unbelievably exciting.

"All in good time," he murmurs, and, turning his head, fastens his mouth to the tender skin of her inner thigh. She gasps loudly, her fingers scrabbling in his hair. He's sucking hard, his teeth scraping, and she knows that he intends to leave a mark. Heat rolls through her body at the thought.

Then he reaches up, his big hands wrapping around her hips, and lifts her onto the table. He pulls her legs over his shoulders and she has to lean back, bracing herself on both hands on the table behind her as he nuzzles and nips his way up the insides of her thighs toward her center, where she's already dripping wet and throbbing with anticipation for him.

"Is it revenge?" he asks as he sends hot breath flowing out across her lower lips, making her shiver. She doesn't answer for a moment, confused, her lust-fogged brain struggling to parse the question.

"What do you mean?"

He licks her softly, one long slow stroke, and her whole body shudders. "Someone did you wrong, and you want to get back at him. Revenge sex." He licks again, brings his hands up to spread her open wider.

Oh. "No," she says, as calmly as she can with his tongue teasing its way between her folds. "No, nothing like that."

He looks up at her, considering. Seems to decide that he believes her. "Okay, then what?"

"Oh my god, you really weren't kidding about never shutting up." She can't believe he's trying to have a conversation in the middle of going down on her. His clever fingers are teasing at her now, making her writhe slowly on the table.

"Just curious. I like to know people's stories."

She stares down at him. He's _weird_. But so hot, and she's so worked up, she can't exactly stop now. And she wants it. Him. His wickedly talented tongue.

"I just want to forget." The words hover in the stale air, a confession that she feels ashamed of as soon as it's out.

But he simply nods, accepting. "I can do that."

He puts his mouth on her fully, and he wasn't kidding about this either. She forgets everything except the devastating curl of his tongue, the tiny sharp nips of his teeth, the press and slide of his lips. He pushes two thick fingers up inside her and works her over skillfully and it's only a few minutes before she's shattering, desperately biting down on her lip to keep from screaming.

When she comes down from the clouds his fingers are still inside her, lightly stroking her inner walls. His blue eyes are black in the dark room, watching her. When he sees her looking down at him, he gives another lick, another twisting thrust of his fingers, and she shudders in almost-pain. She's over-sensitized and it's too much, too soon.

"Don't," she manages, sitting up, using one hand to nudge his face away. He eases her legs off his shoulders and pulls back.

"You sure?"

"Yeah." She tugs at him. "Get up here."

"Bossy," he smirks, but he rises, withdrawing his fingers from her -- she gasps as they seem to drag across every nerve she has -- and lifting them to his mouth. He sucks her juices from his hand while her own hands are busy at his pants, undoing his belt and button, drawing down the zipper, plunging her hand inside to find him. His breath hitches when she wraps her hand around him, and she feels her eyes widening. He's _big_. Her mouth goes dry and a fresh surge of moisture flows from between her legs. She wants that monster inside her, the sooner the better.

"I was right," he announces smugly, removing his fingers from his mouth with a pop. "You taste amazing. I bet you feel amazing too." His hand curls around the back of her neck and he pulls her in for another searing kiss, sliding his tongue along hers so that she can taste herself. His other hand is on her leg again, easing her farther open, making more space for his body to fit between her thighs where she's seated on the table. She groans and arches into him, her hand pulling his erection free of his boxers. It rubs against her bare stomach, the dress bunched around her waist.

"Kate," he growls into her ear, running his tongue around the lobe, "I'm going to fuck you now." From his tuxedo pocket he produces a wallet, which yields a foil-wrapped package. Kate is glad to see it -- she has some in her purse, but she doesn't even know where the clutch has ended up in this hot grasping frenzy.

He rolls the condom on and kisses her again, deep and hot, then licks his way back over to her ear. "You ready?"

"Hell, yes. Do it."

He moves his hips against her, teasing, rubbing his shaft between her folds. She grunts and reaches down between them, guides him into place. The head slips inside and she groans with anticipation.

" _Now_ , Rick."

"You asked for it," and he thrusts forward, hard. She nearly screams as he enters her, stretching so wide it might almost seem impossible, except that she's so completely wet. She wraps her legs around his waist and buries her face in his tuxedo jacket, panting, clutching at his shoulders. He gives a lighter thrust and sinks farther in. His hands are back on her ass again, gripping so tightly it'll probably bruise.

"Okay?" he whispers into her hair. She nods against him, eyes closed, just savoring the sensation.

"Don't stop. Don't stop."

"Won't," and he thrusts again, filling her completely. She moans into his shoulder. It hurts so deliciously, and she loves the feeling of his hard body pressed against hers, the solid wall of his chest under her palms.

He sets a rhythm, deep slow strokes that again seem to glide along every nerve ending inside her. She whines and whimpers with every thrust, giving herself over to the pleasure.

"You feel so good," he says in that syrupy voice, the one that seems to slide soft fingers across her skin. "I could do this all night."

"Oh god," is all she can manage, because she knows he doesn't really mean it but the idea of letting him fuck her like this for hours is such a turn-on.

"No, just a man, but thanks for the ego boost," he teases, and despite herself she's laughing, shaking her head, pulling back so he can see her eye-roll.

"You really do speak all mirth and no matter," she scoffs, twisting her hips against him, but he stills at that, staring.

"What?"

"What?"

"Are you seriously quoting Shakespeare to me while I'm fucking you?" he breathes, incredulous.

"You're not fucking me now," she points out, pretending irritation, rolling her hips harder. He grunts and gives her a fast deep thrust that makes her mouth fall open in a silent gasp, her head dropping forward onto his shoulder again.

"You are _so_ goddamn hot," he groans, and resumes moving, harder and faster now until she's panting and whimpering continually, muffling her noises in his jacket, and then he slides a hand across her stomach and presses down in just the right spot and she shatters again, gripping his upper arms with all her strength.

As the aftershocks fade she realizes that he's still hard inside her, bringing her down with tiny slow thrusts and twists of his hips. And she realizes further that his fingers are still circling her clit, a light touch now, but unrelenting; impossible though it seems, she feels another orgasm building already.

"You didn't...?" she pants, pulling back to see his face again, and he smiles a slow hot smile.

"No rush. You're not going to be much longer, anyway."

She wants to hate him for that bit of arrogance, but it's true.

"Lean back," he says, and before she knows it he has her legs uncurled from his waist and bent up, her ankles resting on his shoulders, her weight again braced on her hands on the table behind her. The position drives him even deeper inside her and she's back to moaning breathlessly as he starts thrusting again.

He has one hand wrapped around her hip again, and the other is still at work on her clit, circling, circling in time with his thrusts, bringing her higher and higher.

"Come on, gorgeous. Come for me one more time," he urges, rubbing faster, thrusting harder, and she flies over the edge again. Even as she's shaking and writhing with it she feels him go still, pressing all the way inside and gasping his own release.

A few sweaty, panting moments later, he pulls out of her, groaning a little, and helps her sit up. "You okay?"

Breathing hard, she stares at him in the dim light. He really is different from her usual one-night stands. Guys don't usually ask her if she's okay after they fuck her brains out.

"Yeah. Great." She hopes that didn't sound sarcastic; didn't mean it that way, really.

"Good." He smiles gently. Turns away for a moment to dispose of the condom and straighten his clothes, while she just sits there on the edge of the table, thinking _wow_ and not much else at all.

Then he's back, retrieving her thong from the floor and slipping it over her shoes. She blinks. He's dressing her?

But he doesn't seem to think that's weird either. He gets the thong up to her knees and then helps her stand. Her legs are a little wobbly, and oh wow, she is going to be sore for a while. She pulls the thong into place and tries to smooth her dress down. The silk may be hopeless, though. She brushes at it a bit and then shrugs. It is what it is.

Rick finds her purse and gives it back to her. "Here."

"Thanks."

"No problem." He looks down, a little awkwardly. "Um -- wait here."

She raises her eyebrows as he dashes over to the other door, across the room from the one they came in. He cracks the door open and peeks out, then opens it wider, gesturing to her.

"What?"

"Right there," he says, pointing as she joins him at the door. "Restroom."

Oh. Yeah, she definitely needs a mirror and a sink. Her dress is all wrinkled, her makeup probably a mess, and sex hair? Likely. "Perfect. Thanks."

"No problem," he repeats. "Uh, I'm going to ... go back to the party?" He shuffles his feet. Another bit of oddness: guys don't usually turn all shy and awkward _after_ getting in her pants.

"Okay," she says, shrugging, "bye."

She walks away from him and into the ladies' restroom. She'll clean up and take a cab home, call David tomorrow to apologize and be interrogated.

She figures she'll never see Rick again, just like all the rest.

**_To Be Continued_ **


	3. Discovery

A few days later Kate goes to visit her dad, guiltily. He raises his eyebrows when he sees the ring on its silver chain around her neck, but he doesn't say anything, and neither does she. They're not going to talk about it, apparently. So what else is new.

When she walks into the living room, she startles at the sight of cardboard boxes all over, half-filled. Many of the shelves and tabletops are partially bared, dust showing the outlines of the knick-knacks.

Jim has been talking about selling the place, moving to somewhere smaller now that it's just him ... but she thought it was just talk. She didn't really imagine that he would.... She swallows down yet another crushing lump of sorrow and wonders when it will end. The dismantling of her childhood home feels like another death in the family.

But she doesn't say anything. They don't talk about things. Just trivialities. The Yankees and the weather.

When Jim goes to the bathroom she finds herself next to the bookcases, half of the shelves half-empty, boxes sitting on the floor, the remaining books on the shelves slumped over as if in defeat.

She trails her fingers idly along the spines, the shelf full of mom's favorite mysteries, and suddenly an icy finger of realization crawls up her own spine. She focuses sharply on the books, so familiar; she has looked at them hundreds of times and rarely ever _seen_ them.

 _In A Hail of Bullets_ by Richard Castle. _A Rose for Everafter_ by Richard Castle. _Hell Hath No Fury_ by Richard Castle.

She slides one of the paperbacks off the shelf, already knowing what she'll see when she turns it over. And yet she gasps anyway, her chest clenching as she looks into his blue eyes, his confident smirk.

Richard Castle. Rick. Her mom's favorite author. The man whose finger marks are still decorating her backside.

Her dad comes back in and finds her standing there, staring at the back of the book. She senses his approach and breathes carefully, wills herself not to blush.

"Katie?"

"Dad?" She turns toward him, speaking softly: the closest she can get to an apology. "Can I, can I take these? Mom's books? These ones here."

"Her murder mysteries? Sure." Jim shrugs. "Never was interested in them myself, but she loved them."

"I know she did." Kate sweeps them into her arms, all of the Castle titles, a dusty dry heap against her chest. "Thanks."

"No problem. Less to pack." He shuffles toward the kitchen. "You want some coffee, Katie?"

No. She wants to go straight back to the dorm and start reading. But she's here, and she's all he's got, and he's all she's got. "Sure, Dad."

* * *

She returns to her dorm room later that evening and sits on her bed with the first book. _In A Hail of Bullets_. She vaguely remembers her mom saying "You should read this, Katie. It's really good. I think you'd like it." Like a typical self-centered teenager (her oh-so-mature twenty-year-old self scoffs) she refused. How could anything her mom liked possibly hold any interest for her? Please.

Oh, so many things to regret.

She opens the book and starts reading.

An hour later, she's startled out of the story by the sound of her roommate coming into the suite. "Hi," the other girl calls from their tiny shared living room. "You home, Kate?"

"Yeah, just reading."

"Okay." Her roommate goes into her own room and Kate blinks, rubs at her eyes. The book really sucked her in. She'd had no idea.

She looks down at the page where she just stopped, and notices a crease at the corner. Her mom must have dog-eared it at some point. She runs a finger over the diagonal crease, thinking, _Mom touched this. Mom's fingers made this._ The paper is forever marred, scarred by Johanna Beckett. It can never be perfectly smooth again.

Now Kate mars the pages anew with fat drops of salt water that splash down and seep into the paper, irrevocable.

She lies down on her bed and clutches the book against her chest, her whole body shaking as the tears flow.

* * *

She finishes the book the next day, and the next book the day after that. Within a week she has read all of Johanna's Richard Castle books, spending all of her free time with them in between classes and final exams and end-of-school-year social events. She reads them all again over the following week. 

Every single paperback in the collection has some touch of Johanna in it: dog-eared pages, her name scrawled in the inside front cover, scraps of paper that she used as bookmarks with random notes written on them (grocery lists and to-do lists mostly). Kate decorates almost all of them with tears.

At some point, though, during her systematic re-read, she stops beating herself up with thoughts of how nice it would have been to discuss these books with her mom. Instead, she's imagining Johanna reading the stories and thinking about them, trying to figure out whodunit. Maybe trying to decide whether the material would be appropriate for young Katie. 

At some point Kate finds that putting her fingers on the crease marks that her mom made makes her smile instead of cry, most of the time.

At some point it occurs to her to wonder if this is what healing feels like.

Then, more prosaically, it occurs to her that Rick Castle has probably written more books that Johanna didn't have. She takes another look at his picture on the back cover of one of them. As usual, just looking at him makes her flush and tingle, and she isn't sure whether the sensation is pleasure, guilt, embarrassment, or something else she can't even name. She wonders whether Johanna ever studied his photo and thought _he's cute_. At that thought Kate flushes again with something that's definitely embarrassment. Her mom may be dead, and Kate no longer a teenager, but she still can't think about her mom having ... erotic thoughts ... without squirming.

Besides, he'd have been _way_ too young for her.

She puts the book down and goes to the bookstore.

In the mystery section she finds several Richard Castle books that she hasn't read. She tucks them under her arm, a little guiltily, as if anyone might see her buying them and know at a glance that she has had the author's head between her legs; that she knows the taste of his tongue, the touch of his hands. Oh god, his hands. She can't think about that in public.

Emerging from the aisle, she's badly startled by an almost-life-size cardboard cutout of the man himself. He smirks smugly at her from a display next to the register, bearing copies of his newest Derrick Storm book, and -- she notices with a little thrill of shock -- a sign announcing that the author will be autographing his books here at this very bookstore next week.

Kate's breathing speeds up. She grabs the new book and adds it to her pile. Pays for all of them and flees.

* * *

Over the next week she reads all of the new books, most of them twice. She also researches Richard Castle and discovers that he has quite the reputation in the gossip rags. It seems that he's a notorious playboy, a different woman on his arm every week; likes to party and throw his money around; divorced, with a small child, whom some of the papers seem to say he is raising alone.

Well. She can't pretend to be offended that she was just another notch on his belt. Wasn't he the same to her? It honestly doesn't bother her. She figures they both knew the deal, going in.

Somewhere deep down, she knows that she's been going to unhealthy lengths to block out her feelings with casual sex. She just can't admit it yet; can't face the fact that her grief is always still there after the physical release has subsided.

The day of the book signing arrives and she's still dithering over whether to go. She shouldn't; she should leave it behind, let herself be another of his conquests, let him be another of her temporary escapes. He probably doesn't even remember her.

But the books.

She feels closer to her mom than ever, because of his books. And she can't tell him that, but she could thank him. She could give him the latest book to sign, and say "thank you," and he'll think she means for the autograph, but she'll know that it's a deeper thank you, a more important one.

He won't remember her. He'll just sign the book, and they'll both go their separate ways. Again.

* * *

She wears one of her many pairs of skin-tight jeans, a plum-colored t-shirt, and high-heeled boots. She brings her hardcover copy of the latest book, and is surprised by how long the line already is when she arrives at the bookstore. She hadn't quite realized that he was such a superstar, if that concept can even be applied to novel writers.

She joins the line and spends almost an hour inching forward while arguing with herself over whether to stay and do this or give up and leave. The internal debate gets even more heated when she gets close enough to see him, seated at a table piled with books, smiling easily at the people -- mostly women -- as they file past. She can hear him murmuring "thank you for coming" and "whom should I make it out to?" and "that's very kind" and "I'm glad you enjoyed it" and so forth. He's wearing a plaid shirt, the sleeves rolled up, the top few buttons undone. Oh god, he looks delicious. She should leave. Shouldn't she?

Abruptly, it's too late; she's fourth in line -- she's third -- she's up next.

She gulps, suddenly entirely sure that this was one of her stupidest ideas yet, and steps forward.

"You can make it out to-" she begins, but he looks up and his eyes widen.

"Kate," he says, surprised. Oh. He does remember her?

"Um." She's got nothing. Seriously, nothing. She slides the book across the table and he takes it, lifting his pen, his eyes moving across her face, some expression she can't quite identify furrowing his forehead.

A small freckled face, topped with shockingly bright red hair, pops into view from underneath the table. "Is it time to go, Daddy?"

"Not quite yet, honey," he replies, his eyes softening as he looks down at ... his daughter. Oh wow, that must be his little daughter. She's so cute. So innocent. Kate's ears are burning.

The little head disappears again and he turns his attention back to Kate. "Thanks for coming," he says, holding her eyes. There's definitely some fresh sparkle in his gaze. Kate feels like her guts have turned to liquid. She just barely manages to remember her plan.

"Thank you," she gets out, for Johanna, and takes her book and flees.

Before she even makes it to the exit, she can't stop herself from opening the book to see what he wrote. On the title page, he has written _For Kate - thanks for being a fan_ and his name, scrawled elaborately. Probably the same words he has written a hundred times today.

But above that, he's somehow managed to stick a bright yellow post-it note. He must have reached for it while Kate was distracted by his little girl.

_Hotel next door. Room 312._

She stops cold in between the cookbooks and the travel guides. He wants her to come to his hotel room? That can only mean one thing. That arrogant son of a-

But she stops herself before she finishes that thought. Arrogant? Maybe, but she's the one who found out who he is and where he would be, and came to him, isn't she?

There can be no mistaking what will happen if she goes to his hotel room. And she doesn't have to go; it's entirely her choice. But she can't deny that she wants to.

She reminds herself that of all the men she has subsumed her feelings in since her mom died, he was the one who came closest to truly making her forget -- closest to what she really wanted. Aggressive, but not forceful. He took care with her pleasure as well as his. He asked permission, made sure he wasn't doing anything she didn't want. He stopped when she told him to stop. 

And the sex was good. Really good. She could barely move the next day, but that was good too, in its own way. She took a long hot bath and spent almost the whole day being lazy and decadent, barely thinking about her mom at all.

She wants him again. She never does this; never the same guy twice. But she came here to see him, and he certainly seems to want her, and she wants him. Her body is already flushed with the thought, goosebumps rising all over her skin.

She checks the sign in the front window and sees that he's supposed to be there at the table, signing books, for another half-hour. So she spends an hour in a Starbucks down the street, nursing a latte and re-reading bits of the new book. She has forced herself to stop thinking in circles. Her body has already decided.

Finally she drains her cup, tucks the book back into her shoulder bag, and walks slowly back to the hotel. She feels naughty, dirty, but in a good way -- excited. Her underwear is already damp.

She takes the elevator to the third floor and knocks on the door of 312.


	4. Reprise and Retreat

Rick opens the door almost immediately, still wearing the plaid shirt. "You found me," he says, and Kate still can't read his expression.

"Wasn't difficult." Bold now that she's here, she steps into the room without invitation, drops her bag onto the little table next to the door. It's a typical hotel room: not much furniture except the chest of drawers with TV on top, tiny desk with lamp and phone, and the king-size bed taking up most of the floor space.

As she turns back to him, the spark kindles in his eyes again. "It's good to see you in regular clothes," he observes, looking her up and down. "Not that I didn't like that dress you wore to the wedding, of course."

The wedding. So he really does remember her? "Please," she scoffs, testing. "You don't remember my dress."

"Oh, but I do," he counters, stepping closer to her, and closer still. "It was forest-green silk, with cap sleeves and a vee-neck." She blinks in surprise. "And the hem hit you right here." He presses two fingers to her leg, just above the knee. The light touch sends sparks up her leg straight to her center.

"You're good," she breathes, not bothering to hide that she's impressed. He smiles a little.

"You know what else I remember?"

She's mesmerized by the heat in his eyes, the deep rasp of his voice. "What?"

"I remember that even though I went down on you, and fucked you-" she shivers deliciously at the blunt words- "and made you come three times, I never got to see your tits."

She blinks again, startled out of the fog of desire that had begun to gather between them. He grins naughtily, letting her see his gaze drop insinuatingly down to the curve of her shirt.

"What _is_ it with men and boobs?" she huffs, rolling her eyes. His smile, if possible, widens.

"They're pretty," he shrugs. "They feel nice, and they move in interesting ways. They're something we can't have -- well, unless we get really fat, but that's not the sa-" 

He stops suddenly, drawn up short as she puts her hands to the bottom of her shirt and simply pulls it off, drops it on the floor. She's not wearing a bra.

"They're pretty," he repeats in a near-whisper, staring hungrily. In one swift move he seizes her upper arms and pushes her down onto the bed, his own body landing next to her, his mouth immediately descending to suck one small mound almost all the way in. She cries out in surprise and pleasure, arching into him as he brings a hand up to the other breast and squeezes lightly, rubbing his thumb over the nipple. His hot wet mouth is busy suckling hard, his tongue and teeth teasing at her, and it's all so fast and hot her head is spinning. She can only lie there writhing and whimpering as he switches back and forth from one breast to the other, kissing and licking, sucking and nibbling as if it's all he ever wants to do.

"Tastes so good," he mumbles against her flesh, and she finally gets the presence of mind to lift her hand, slip it inside the open neck of his plaid shirt, running her fingers over the broad muscles of his chest. She gets a few more buttons open and then he grabs her hand and pulls it away. He drapes one heavy leg over both of hers, pinning her to the mattress.

"Hold still."

"No." She wriggles under him impatiently. "There's more to me than boobs, you know."

He lifts his head and studies her face for a moment. "I know that." A brief scrape of his teeth across the underside of one breast, making her gasp and jerk, and then he adds, "Just getting caught up." But he trails a line of sloppy wet kisses up across her collarbone and neck, over her jaw, finally claiming her mouth, and she groans in satisfaction, opening eagerly to him, twisting her tongue around his.

His hand is still fondling her breast while they kiss, and finally she breaks away to bite his chin and ask, "Aren't you going to touch me anywhere else?"

"Eventually." He grins, nuzzles his way behind her ear and sucks on that one most sensitive spot. At the same instant, he pinches her nipple, hard. She jerks and gasps, arching against his confining leg, and opens a few more of his shirt buttons. She tugs at it until he pulls away for long enough to remove the shirt, but then he's back on her, going for her breasts yet again.

"Rick," she groans, "stop teasing."

"Stop being so impatient," he counters. "Teasing can be fun." But he kisses his way across her ribs and farther down, opening her jeans, slipping a hand inside while his tongue swirls around her belly button. She moans eagerly, tangling her fingers in his hair, trying to push him down farther still. "Patience," he reiterates. "Patience is a virtue."

"Fuck virtue," she snips, and feels as well as hears him chuckle.

"Eloquent," he grins, and his fingers dip inside her thong and slide along slick wet flesh, making her writhe and twitch against him.

"Oh," she gets out, and wants to say more, but he's stroking her so perfectly and she can hardly breathe.

"How close are you, Kate?" he asks huskily, his eyes glued to her face.

"Oh god, so close," she whines, and he slips a finger up inside her and rubs hard with his thumb and she goes flying off the edge with a strangled gasp.

She's still spasming when he pulls his hand out of her jeans and tugs them down, removing her boots along the way, then stripping off her thong so she's entirely naked, spread out on the bed.

"You're so beautiful when you come," he says, and then he lies down between her thighs and puts his mouth on her. She shrieks, over-sensitized and twitching, but he holds her hips down firmly with his hands and sucks gently but relentlessly in just the right spot and brings her to another quick, hard climax almost immediately.

"Halfway there," he remarks as he slides back up to lie next to her. "I need to make you come at least four times, since it was three last time."

"It's not a competition," she sighs, shaking her head slowly. She feels boneless, wonderfully limp. He smirks.

"Everything's a competition. Anyway, it's fun." He rises up and looms over her. "Now can I play with these some more?" And his hands and mouth are all over her breasts again. 

She rolls her eyes, thinking softly how ridiculous he is -- a grown man, older than herself, acting like a little boy with a new toy. Well, an X-rated toy, but still. In any case, she can hardly move right now so she might as well let him play. She relaxes and lets her eyes fall shut.

"Just for a minute," she murmurs languidly. But as he amuses himself with her breasts, her body slowly starts to respond again, and then she becomes aware that he has stripped himself naked and his erection is bumping against her leg. She reaches down and wraps her fingers around it, startling a groan from him that vibrates through her nipple in his mouth and straight down to her center.

"Shit," he says, "don't do that," and pulls her hand off him.

"Why not?" A new surge of energy prompts her to sit up and give him a teasing look, biting her lower lip very deliberately. "Should I do this instead?" And she lowers her head and takes him into her mouth.

"Oh shit," he groans again, his head falling back onto the pillow, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder. She grins a little around his shaft as she slides her lips down. She can't get it very far in but it's enough, with her hand stroking up and down the rest of the shaft while she plays her tongue delicately across the head and that sensitive spot behind it.

"Fuck, you're so good at that," he gets out, panting.

She just smiles around him, enjoying the way his body vibrates underneath her, the erratic heave of his breathing, the thick heavy throb of him against her tongue, the smell and taste of him. She lifts her eyes to his face and sees him watching her, his expression strained with the effort of keeping control.

The sight of her looking at his face is too much for him and he sits up partway, pulling her off. "Oh god, you have to stop."

"Spoilsport," she mock-pouts, and he growls, pulling her up across his body for another deep kiss. She sinks down into it, her breasts smushed against his chest, his erection nudging her hip, their legs tangled together. Their tongues tangle together also, both of them gasping and grasping.

"You like to be on top, don't you?" he asks around her tongue.

"Mmm," she murmurs agreement.

"I thought so." He reaches a long arm over to the bedside table and produces a condom. Kate sits up, straddling his thighs, and takes it from him. She rolls it on, taking more time than necessary to stroke and rub, until he groans and pushes her hands away again.

"Come on, come on," he urges breathlessly, tugging at her hips, pulling her into position. She settles herself on her knees over him and sinks down, twisting her pelvis side to side slowly, taking him in inch by inch. They both moan in syncopation. Kate throws her head back and closes her eyes, letting herself drown in the sensation: the way he stretches her so tightly, the delicious ache. It's just as good as she remembers it from last time -- better, even, because in this position she can control the angle and the speed. She moves on him slowly, slowly, relishing every slide of every inch.

"So good," she hears herself moan without conscious volition, and he makes a noise of agreement. 

She feels his hands on her hips, and then they slide up and cup her breasts yet again. Her eyes pop open. "Really?" She sits up straight on him and gives him an incredulous _are you kidding me?_ look. He widens his eyes deliberately, all faux-angelic little-boy charm.

"What? I'm making up for lost time," he pants, running his fingers around and around her nipples until they're so tight it almost hurts. She feels a surge of ... affection? ... some strange emotion that floods her chest and makes her gasp for breath.

"I didn't know you were so monomaniacal," she teases, rolling her hips down on him, arching her back to push her breasts harder into his palms. His mouth drops open a little, astonishment spreading across his face.

"Holy shit, your vocabulary is so hot."

She tries to laugh, but the exquisite tension is building again in the pit of her stomach and her hips start moving faster, grinding down against him with each stroke.

"Oh Rick, oh god," she bursts out as it sweeps up and over her, much faster than she had expected, and she's writhing and shuddering over him in release.

As the waves of pleasure subside she leans forward, bracing her palms on his sweaty chest, and sees him watching her with a small smile. This smile is new. It's not the smirk she has seen several versions of on him already, nor the cocky grin. This smile is different somehow, but before she can analyze it he lunges up to kiss her and then abruptly rolls her over, drawing a surprised squeak from her throat.

"My turn to be on top," he says, and she realizes he's still buried to the hilt inside her. He lifts himself up and now he's the one kneeling, and she's lying back on the bed with her thighs draped across his. He pulls back a little and thrusts in again, slow and deep, still smiling down at her, murmuring, "You feel amazing. Just let me." 

She whimpers a little, her head thrashing from side to side, her fingers twisting in the bedspread, letting him do all the work this time. She can't believe he is building her up yet again, so fast.

"Oh yes...." It feels so good she can hardly make words. He's gripping her hip with one hand, pulling her into him as he thrusts slowly, smoothly. His other hand is on her breast -- again! -- but now it slides down her belly and slips back between her thighs.

He leans forward a little, changing the angle, drawing a new groan from her, and their eyes meet.

"Kate," he says huskily as his fingers find just the right place. "You're incredible. Extraordinary. Remarkable."

She blinks and stares at him. Somehow the words of praise are winding her higher and higher along with all the rest of it. The sweet slide of him inside her, thick and filling. The press of his fingers on her most sensitive spot. The rasp of his voice slithering into her ears. And now the hot spark of his gaze, something more than just lust flickering in his eyes, making her stomach clench unexpectedly.

"Shut up," she moans, too far gone in her pleasure to wonder why she's said that. 

"You know I never shut up," he growls, panting now, his movements getting erratic, sloppy. "Fuck, Kate, oh god, you're amazing." And he presses down once more and she comes, hard, screaming. He's coming too an instant later, collapsing forward and grunting urgently into the curve of her neck.

He rolls off her almost immediately and they lie there for a few long moments, the room silent except for their harsh breathing. 

Kate stirs first and looks over at him, suddenly unaccountably shy. She discovers that her fingers are tangled in his hair, lightly combing through the soft strands, an oddly gentle gesture for her. She blinks in surprise and slides her hand out from under his head.

He turns his head at the motion, and as soon as their eyes meet, he leans in for another kiss. She thinks dazedly that she isn't sure she can manage another round, but he kisses her gently, sweetly. This isn't a kiss that starts things going; this is a kiss that expresses things. This kiss is tender, and suddenly she feels panic rise in her throat and she pulls away sharply.

"Kate," but his soft sexy murmur just increases her anxiety. She rolls over and stands up in a single motion, ignoring the twinges and aches of various muscles.

"Can I use your shower?" she asks a little desperately, not looking at him. She hears a soft sound that is probably his head thumping down onto the mattress.

"Of course."

She flees into the bathroom, her heart pounding.

She stands under the hot water, lathering herself with the hotel-provided soap and shampoo. Tears prickle at the insides of her eyelids but she refuses to let them out. She tells herself she's not going to cry if she doesn't even know why the hell she's crying. What is wrong with her?

One refrain keeps repeating in her mind: _I can't keep doing this. It has to stop._

When she finally turns off the shower, she finds her clothing in a neat heap on the edge of the sink, her shoes on the floor just inside the door. He must have snuck them in there while she was preoccupied. Another surge of emotion twists her throat ( _he's so nice_) and she has to splash cold water onto her heated face.

When she emerges from the bathroom, clean and dressed and toweling her hair dry, he's sitting on the edge of the bed, his pants back on. His eyes follow her across the room.

"Are you okay?" he asks quietly.

She nods, looking at him sidelong. "Yeah, fine." She takes a comb from her purse and begins working on her damp hair, using the half-length mirror in the hotel room's entryway. The one in the bathroom is too steam-fogged.

"No, really. I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"What? No. No." She turns to give him a moment of eye contact, to make sure he can see the truth of it. "I'm fine, really." Turns back to the mirror. "Just, you know, things to do, places to go."

He comes over and leans against the wall next to the mirror. "I guess. But, Kate, listen."

She waits for him to continue, but he doesn't. "What?"

He frowns and opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. "At least give me your phone number."

A chill gathers in her belly, a cold hard lump of something like dread. Unaccountably, she feels the prickle of tears again. "No." Then, fearing that came out too fast and sounded rude, she manages, "Sorry. But no."

"Kate. Please, I-" He reaches out, his fingers brushing across her shoulder. She shies away, resisting the treacherous instinct of her body to tilt toward him. Quickly she puts the comb back into her bag and slings it over her shoulder.

"No, Rick. I..." she falters. She has never had to do this before. "I can't. I'm sorry." She forces herself to look at him, standing between her and the door. He just stands there and watches her, his expression open and earnest, making her throat constrict. "I'm sorry," she chokes out for the third time, and steps around him, and leaves.


	5. Masks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting with this chapter, some events and dialogue are taken directly from series canon. Some dialogue and action is used verbatim, some not. In kindness to authorial fallibility, please assume that any deviations from canon are intentional.

A few days later Kate is at her dad's house again. Everything looks much the same as it did the last time she was here: half-full boxes on the floor, half-empty shelves all around. But the dust is thicker, the room somehow darker, Jim Beckett grayer. His cheeks seem more prominent, he smells of booze, and his speech is slurred. For the first time ever in her young life she truly sees her father as an old man, and it's a little terrifying.

"Dad. Dad, have you eaten anything today?"

"I been eating. I eat," he mumbles defensively, looking around the living room as if he doesn't recognize it. "Whatta you want, Katie?"

"I just wanted to see you, see how you are," she says feebly, but they both know it's a lie. They both know they've failed at being each other's salvation.

Jim sighs deeply, wearily. His voice is a little firmer when he speaks again, his consonants a bit more clear. "What is it really?"

She bites her lip, fidgets, can't meet his eyes. "Um. I was hoping you could give me." She falters, forces herself to finish in a rush. "The name of that therapist you were trying to get me to see."

Jim is surprised, she can tell. This is the closest either of them can get to admitting any kind of deep emotion at this point.

"Sure. Yeah, sure." He looks around, a little befuddled for a moment, then sharpens again and heads toward his study. Kate follows behind him. "I'm sure I have it in here somewhere."

"I can help you look."

"No, no. It's a system." Despite his mental state these days, his desk is still neat as a pin, and she knows that he is somehow managing to keep up with his work. Maybe he, like his daughter, is finding ways to avoid thinking. Her mind shies away from that topic and she twists her fingers together, distracting herself anew with the crackling of her knuckles.

"Here it is." Jim comes up with a piece of paper, a name and phone number scrawled diagonally. "Got the reference from one of my partners who deals with estate law."

"Great. Thanks." She tucks the slip of paper into her purse, hesitates, bites her lip. "Dad...let me take you to dinner. Come on. We'll get burgers and milkshakes. French fries."

He just looks at her for a moment, small and sad. Her heart twists painfully.

"Okay, Katie. That'll be nice."

* * *

The very next day, Kate forces herself to call the therapist and make an appointment. She thinks it's one of the hardest things she has ever done, but she's forced to reevaluate that two weeks later, after her first session with Dr. Nelson. Making the phone call was a cake-walk in comparison to actually doing the therapy. 

But she's determined to do it: to figure out how to get past this, how to make a normal life for herself. How to live with the crushing grief and the feeling of emptiness in her heart where her mother used to be. How to stop being haunted by her mother, and, more recently, by the memory of Rick's face when she walked away from him.

It takes more than a year of therapy for Kate to sort out all her conflicting feelings about her mother's death, her father's reaction, and her own self-destructive behavior. She hates all of it, but she keeps going back because the more she talks to Dr. Nelson, the more she realizes how much she has fucked things up. She doesn't want to ever do that again. 

Little does she know that becoming a cop will bring it all back up again, and more.

* * *

Nine years later, Detective Kate Beckett walks into a luxury apartment with her mother's ring on its chain around her neck and stops cold, aghast at the sight of a dead woman covered in flowers.

It can't be possible. She _knows_ this picture. It's currently sitting on her bookshelf back at home.

"Who are you?" she doesn't even realize she has said, her whole body nearly numb with shock.

From the side she's dimly aware of her junior detective answering the question, as if it were just any other crime scene.

"Alison Tisdale, 24. Grad student at NYU, part of the social work program."

Beckett is drawn toward the body, sickly fascinated. Somehow she manages to keep up her end of the conversation with Esposito, Ryan, and Lanie while her eyes take in the scene and her mind races at light-speed.

 _Flowers For Your Grave_ , by Richard Castle.

She hasn't thought about Richard Castle in years. Well, that's not quite accurate. She still buys every one of his books, and reads them, usually at least twice. But she has carefully, even ritualistically kept herself from turning the books over to look at the author photo on the back covers.

It's obvious now that she's going to have no choice but to think about him again. To see him again. To talk to him.

She thinks vaguely that this is the kind of situation in which the heroine of a Victorian novel might faint. Gracefully, onto a conveniently placed settee, of course.

Kate Beckett doesn't faint, but she is rattled, and her coworkers can see it. "Don't you guys read?" she snaps, and stalks away to find a quiet corner to compose herself. 

After a minute she's able to rejoin them, make a sarcastic comment that passes for apology in cop-speak, and finish the initial walk-through of the victim's apartment. In the car Ryan and Esposito carefully don't mention her mental state, but Ryan does ask, somewhat cautiously, what their next move is.

"I need to check on something at the precinct, and I need you to pull the Fisk file, and then we're going to go pick up a person of interest." The boys look at each other, shrug, and accept.

They spend the rest of the drive in silence, Beckett's mind racing around long-forgotten circles.

Rick Castle. The last man she slept with during that dark, tormented period of time after losing her mom. The man who, unknowingly, helped her to break out of that darkness.

The man who sparked something inside her: something she had to run away from, paradoxically, in order to heal.

She has worked so hard: first to learn to live without her mom, and then -- after she became a cop -- to learn to live with the unsolved case, like a loose tooth nagging at the back of her mouth. She can do all of that now. She can live a sort-of normal life, have a job that she's extremely good at; she can get justice and closure for other families. She can think and talk about her mom without breaking down. She has rebuilt her relationship with her dad. She has done all of that, and it was hard, but worth it.

Can she manage to hold onto it, and see him again?

Back at her desk at the precinct, she pulls up a web browser and surfs over to richardcastle.net. It takes a few tries to remember her password -- she hasn't looked at the fan forums on the site in a long time -- but she finally gets in, and shortly learns that he has a new book coming out and a book release party happening this very evening at a posh location downtown.

She clicks on a post labeled "STORM FALL SPOILERS!!!!!!!!" and discovers that, according to rumor, the book being released tonight will be the last Derrick Storm novel; in fact, the anonymous user claims that Storm dies in bloody, messy fashion at the end of the book.

Beckett raises an eyebrow at that. Derrick Storm dead? Why would he do that?

She reminds herself forcibly that she has a real-life murder to solve, and clicks the browser closed. "Okay, guys, got a location. Let's go."

* * *

Beckett bulls her way into the book party in her usual fashion, badge held up and used as a metaphorical battering ram against anyone who tries to stand in her way. A bewildered security guard points her to the author, standing by the bar. She takes perhaps the deepest deep breath of her lifetime and strides up to him, summoning her most authoritative tone of voice.

"Richard Castle?"

He turns smoothly, Sharpie held high, the familiar smirk twisting his lips. "Where would you like it?"

She quashes all emotion down ruthlessly. "Detective Kate Beckett, NYPD. We need to ask you some questions about a murder that took place earlier tonight."

His jaw drops; he stares at her as if he's seen a ghost.

Beckett is vaguely aware of a redheaded face appearing at his shoulder, saying something in his ear as a hand plucks the pen from his limp fingers.

"Kate?" he breathes, still staring.

"Come with me, please," she says, still in her no-nonsense tone, and he takes an almost involuntary step forward, only to be stopped by a platinum blonde who inserts herself between them with eyes snapping fire.

"Exactly what is this?" the interloper demands.

"Exactly who are you?" Beckett snaps back. The other woman looks outraged, draws herself up indignantly.

"Gina Cowell. I happen to be Mr. Castle's publisher."

"Well, I happen to be a homicide detective investigating two murders, and I need Mr. Castle to come to the Twelfth Precinct and answer some questions." Beckett makes sure the other woman gets a good look at her badge and then lowers it, adding, "He's not under arrest, so this doesn't have to be a big scene unless you want it to be."

The publisher is stunned into silence. Rick -- Mr. Castle -- finally closes his mouth and puts his hands on Gina's shoulders, firmly moving her out of the way.

"Finish the party without me," he tells her, never taking his eyes off Beckett. "Make sure my mother and Alexis get home safely. I'll call you tomorrow."

Beckett turns on her heel and strides out, trusting Ryan and Esposito to make sure that Castle comes along.

In the car, Espo takes shotgun, leaving Ryan in the back seat with the still stunned Rick Castle. As Beckett pulls out into traffic, Castle leans forward -- Ryan startles and puts his hand on his gun -- and says, "Kate, what's this all about? Talk to me."

"It's Detective Beckett," she says, poker face firmly in place, her eyes on the road.

Esposito frowns at her. "He called you Kate. You know this guy?"

"I do not."

She hears Castle suck in a quick breath of astonishment, but he sits back slowly against the car's rear seat and is silent.

* * *

Ryan and Esposito take Castle to the interrogation room while Beckett takes a moment to peruse his rap sheet and compose herself.

"You want us to sit in, boss?" Ryan asks when they come out. They're both eyeing her curiously, but they won't ask. She's grateful for cop stoicism.

"No. You can watch from obs, but I got this one."

She glances through the folder once more, opens the door, and begins.

"Mr. Castle."

He looks up at her, his face open and intent. He's removed his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt. She has her cop armor on, an impermeable emotional shield, insulating her from however attractive he might look and however hotly he might be regarding her.

"Kate-"

"Mr. Castle," she interrupts quickly, "the law requires me to inform you that this interview is being recorded."

It's a lie. They don't record interviews with people who aren't suspects; the microphone is only there to convey sound into the observation room. But Castle doesn't have to know that, and from the look on his face, he gets the real message she's sending: namely, that the conversation is not private.

His brow furrows, but he accepts. "How can I help you, Detective?" he asks carefully. Now it's Beckett's turn to get the message: he will play along with this charade that they've never met. But for how long?

She shows him photos of Alison Tisdale and their previous victim, Marvin Fisk. Castle denies knowing either of them. He also, incidentally, flirts a little bit. Beckett turns up the heat of her glare, to little effect.

When she pulls out the picture of the Tisdale crime scene, he blanches, leaning back in his seat as he stares at it.

" _Flowers For Your Grave_ ," he murmurs, clearly rattled. Beckett gentles her tone as she shows him the Fisk crime scene. She gives him a moment to take it in -- two people murdered, the crime scenes staged exactly like scenes from his books -- and then goes back on the offensive, requesting access to his fan mail. He agrees immediately. 

"Good," she says, "because sometimes in cases like this we find that the-"

"-killer attempts to contact the subject of his obsession," he finishes. She blinks in surprise as he lifts his gaze from the photos to meet her eyes. "I'm also pretty well versed in psychopathic methodologies. Occupational hazard..." he trails off, gazing into her eyes. He licks his lips, leaning forward slightly across the table. Beckett blinks slowly, then more quickly as she leans back, out of his range.

"If you can get the letters here by tomorrow, that would be very helpful." She quickly gathers up the file and rises. He gestures toward the photos.

"Can I get copies of those?"

"Copies?" she repeats in disbelief. He babbles something about a poker game and other mystery writers, but she just shakes her head.

"People are dead, Mr. Castle."

"I'm not asking for the bodies, just the pictures." He tries a wide-eyed innocent expression that does little but harden her heart further against him.

"I think we're done here." And she strides out, making her way quickly to the break room so she won't have to see him leaving.

Esposito finds her there a few minutes later. "He's gone."

"We should all be gone," she says, pouring a cup of decaf. "It's past midnight." Esposito is just looking at her, thoughtful. "What?"

"You didn't ask for his alibi. You didn't ask him where he was at the time of the murders."

"He isn't a suspect," she says defensively. "What mystery author would be dumb enough to write a book and then murder someone the exact same way, a dozen years later?"

"Sure," Espo agrees. "None of us really think he did it. But you, you always ask."

"Do I?" She fusses with sugar and cream, buying time. She knows that Esposito is right. It's a habit of hers, for completeness: she always asks that question of everyone she talks to in the box, even when she is sure they aren't the killer. It's an omission, and she shouldn't be surprised that a fellow detective noticed.

"I guess I decided not to bother this time," she says at last. Espo is still skeptical, but he just nods.

"Okay, boss. See you tomorrow."

"Night." But she stands there just staring into her coffee cup for a few more long minutes after he leaves.

* * *

Beckett goes home and, after putting her gun in its drawer and kicking off her shoes, stands for a long moment just looking at the old Castle paperbacks on her shelf. The books that used to be her mother's; the books that helped to drag her out of the pit.

She draws a hot bath and sinks into it, trying not to think about things, but she can't help herself. Old emotions come drifting back up: feelings of guilt and self-reproach, of not being good enough, strong enough, caring enough.

For how long has she dreamed of having a man look at her the way Rick Castle has looked at her tonight, and before? But not him. Never him, because it was all a lie. On her side and his both.

She's reluctant to go to bed, afraid of what demons might visit her in dreams. But it's already late, so she does go to bed and sleeps deeply, dreamless but unsatisfying.


	6. Interference

The next morning Beckett is at the precinct bright and early with her Castle books in a box. She instructs Ryan and Esposito to read them and look for any similarities with other murder cases, lets their sarcasm and objections roll off her back, and gets back to work.

Of course, she knows all of the books very well, but it can't hurt to have a couple of extra pairs of eyes in case they do come across another real-life Castle crime scene.

The fan mail arrives, in several large plastic boxes, and she sighs internally at the thought of how long it's going to take to go through all of those letters. Maybe she can foist some of that work off on the boys. Even as she's thinking that, Esposito appears with an update on the crime scene -- a non-update that is no help at all -- and calls her attention to the captain's office.

Oh shit.

"What's he doing here?"

"Maybe he likes you," Espo teases. She gives him the death glare, but then the captain is calling her over, telling her -- shit, shit -- that Castle has offered to help with the case.

No. She can't handle it. She thought she was done with him after last night.

But there's nothing she can do. The man is standing there smirking, and the captain refuses her request for a private discussion. Not that it would help much anyway; what would she say? _I can't work with this man because I slept with him a million years ago and there are unresolved issues_ ?

For the first time in ages, she wonders if she should call Dr. Nelson.

She takes a deep breath and glares at Castle. "All right. I suppose you can help go through the fan mail. The briefing room is probably big enough to contain your ego."

"Lead the way, Detective," he says, sending her other messages with his eyes that she refuses to receive. She turns to call out to her boys.

"Ryan, Esposito."

"Yeah?"

"Get on Tisdale's financials and phone records, see if anything pops. And pull up the list of Fisk's clients that we got from his law office, cross-check them against Tisdale's social work clients. There's gotta be a connection somewhere."

"Right."

"You got it, boss."

She nods and makes for the briefing room, not bothering to check whether Castle is following. Of course he is.

Just inside the door she turns to face him, startles briefly at how close he is. She takes a deliberate step back and fixes him with her most severe glare. He blinks, his eyebrows going up in surprise.

"Listen up," Beckett orders slowly, deliberately. "Whatever girl you think you met, years ago? She's gone. She doesn't exist. She never existed. Do you understand me?"

Castle's expression is intent, his eyes guarded. "I hear you, Detective."

She isn't completely satisfied, because he's a writer and she knows he chooses his words carefully. And _I hear you_ isn't _I understand_ or _I accept_. But it'll have to do.

"Okay." She turns to open the first box of fan mail.

They settle on opposite sides of the table, pulling on gloves, each taking a stack of letters. They read in silence for a few minutes, though she sneaks a few glances at him and catches him doing the same.

"What?" she demands at last.

"Nothing," he replies automatically. "No, it's just, uh, I like your short hair. It looks good on you."

"Why are you even here?" she bursts out, frustrated. His eyes widen in surprise. "You don't care about the victims," she carries on recklessly, "so you aren't here for justice. You don't care that the guy's aping your books, so you aren't here because you're outraged." His first name almost rolls off her tongue but she stops it just in time. "So what is it, Castle?" Too late, she shuts her mouth. Damn it, she didn't mean to let him get to her. Shit.

He gazes at her, that same look he gave her last night in the interrogation room; a version of the same look he gave her in a hotel room a lifetime ago. It makes her shift uncomfortably in her seat and wish she hadn't said anything.

"I'm here for the story," he says after a moment, quietly.

"The story?" she repeats faintly. _I like to know people's stories_ , she remembers him saying, once.

He leans forward, still holding her gaze. "The why." Her mouth goes dry. She's rooted to her chair, pinned by the intensity of his eyes.

After a moment he lets up slightly and repeats, "The why. Why these people? Why these murders?" 

Oh. Right. The case. She tries to keep her breathing steady. Focus on the case. "Sometimes there is no why," she says quietly. "Sometimes the guy is just a psychopath."

He shakes his head, waving that off. "There's always a story. Always a chain of events that makes everything make sense. Take you, for example." His gaze sharpens again and she has to suppress a shiver. "Under normal circumstances, you should not be here. Most good-looking women become lawyers, not cops." She blinks at the apparent change of subject. "And yet, here you are." He frowns briefly. "Why?"

Her heart is pounding. This is exactly what she feared: the way he's pulling her in with his voice and his eyes and his words. The way he sees right through her. Against all reason she's responding to it and hates herself for it.

She reaches for her cop armor, puts on a fake smile. "I don't know, Castle," she tosses back, managing to make it sound light. "You're the novelist, you tell me."

He nods slowly, accepting the challenge. "Well, you're not bridge and tunnel, so that means Manhattan, that means money. You went to college, probably a pretty good one. You had options. Better options, more socially acceptable ones. But then something happened." His eyes unfocus a little, as if he's seeing her story play out. "Something happened about ten years ago, something you wanted to forget, but you couldn't. Can't." She sucks in a breath, blinking hard, her gut clenching. How? How does he do this?

"It didn't happen to you," he continues, "you're wounded, but you're not that wounded. No, it was somebody you cared about. Someone you loved. So you tried to forget, tried to bury it. Tried all kinds of..." he pauses, clears his throat, chooses his words very carefully, "...unhealthy coping mechanisms to make yourself forget. But it didn't work, because the person responsible was never caught, and you couldn't live with that."

He stops, refocuses, lets his gaze land hotly on her face. She looks away, forcing a swallow through her throat that seems to have closed up.

"And that, Detective Beckett, is why you're here."

She's torn between the urge to punch him and the urge to wrap her arms around him and tell him all her secrets. Of course, she does neither.

"Cute trick," she manages at last, pulling her armor back around her yet again. "But don't think you know me."

"Cuts both ways, Detective," he replies immediately. "You don't know me either." His eyes flare at her briefly, almost angry, before he returns his attention to the letter in his hand.

"Point is, there's always a story," he murmurs to the table, and she doesn't know how she might have responded, except that then she looks at her own letter and a drawing of the crime scene jumps out at her.

* * *

So now they have a new lead, and Castle uses his influence to move them to the top of the lab queue for fingerprint analysis. Which is irritating, the more so because she has to admit (privately, to herself) that it's also helpful.

Her thoughts are roiling, her stomach queasy with the overload of emotions that she doesn't have time to process now ... and then suddenly there's another body and she feels even more sick. Because two is a pattern, but three is a serial killer, and the Fisk case has already been sitting around for two weeks, which means that this new one is her fault. Kate Beckett's fault. If she had recognized the Fisk scene sooner, made the connection to Castle sooner, this new victim might still be alive.

That internal agony keeps her silent and tight-jawed all the way to the new crime scene. Castle seems to sense it and leaves her alone, gazing quietly out the car window the whole time.

The body floating in the pool gives him pause too. It's one thing to see photos of corpses arranged like his books; seeing the actual body is a whole different experience and he is clearly affected by it. Beckett is oddly grateful for this sign that he is capable of normal human reactions. She gets a little prickly when she sees him charming Lanie, though. She knows it's stupid, but Lanie is _her_ friend, damn it.

They're hardly finished looking at the new crime scene when the call comes in from the lab with an ID on the fingerprints, and everything is a whirlwind of activity. Beckett is frustrated but unsurprised when Castle doesn't obey her order to stay in the car while they're clearing Kyle Cabot's apartment. At least there appears to be no real danger, though Cabot's Castle-shrine is pretty creepy.

Back at the precinct, she can see that Castle is dissatisfied with the conclusion of the case. She gets it, too. Even aside from what he has said about stories, she knows from experience that sometimes you just can't be happy with the way a case closes. So she can sympathize. Of course, at the same time, she thinks, it's a relief to have the case finished; maybe, just maybe, he'll disappear out of her life again and she can stop feeling ... whatever the hell she has been feeling these last two days.

He leaves, and she tells herself again that she's relieved. Really. She is.

* * *

Beckett sits on her sofa that evening, eating takeout, and imagines calling up Dr. Nelson and saying _Remember that guy I told you about nine years ago? I had to deal with him at work the past few days. After not having seen him this whole time._

Dr. Nelson would say, of course, _How do you feel about that?_

And because it's all so mixed up and muddled, and because "I don't know" isn't allowed in Dr. Nelson's world, Kate would say something like _Confused. Flustered. Angry. Frustrated. I can't keep my cool around him half the time._

 _I see,_ Dr. Nelson would say, nodding as if she saw a lot more than Kate knows. _Have you tried talking to him about what happened?_ she would ask, even though she would know the answer, because she knows Kate pretty well -- or used to, anyway.

Of course Beckett hasn't talked to him about what happened. That would be ... Well, anyway, she hasn't, and she isn't going to. The case is closed. It's over.

* * *

The next morning she nearly has a heart attack when she gets to work and finds Castle digging around on her desk. What the hell? "Why are you still here?" she demands, and almost bolts when he tries to give her a gift.

"Don't look so suspicious," he urges gently. "Go on, open it."

Against her better judgment, she does. And it's ... a copy of his new book. Oh, shit. How does he know?

"Not that you're a fan," he teases lightly, and she can't help responding. Damn him, why does he have to be so....

"Thanks," she manages. "That's actually kind of sweet."

"It was nice to have met you, Detective Beckett," he says, again with his eyes full of meaning. He's close enough that she can smell him, a scent both familiar and unfamiliar; he must have changed his aftershave, but underneath it his own essence is the same. It brings back flashes of memory that make her head spin. 

He leans in closer and her whole body freezes up. Shit, he isn't going to- 

He brushes his lips ever so lightly across her cheek and pulls away, smiling softly. And he's gone.

She sinks into her desk chair, cheeks flaming, heart pounding. Oh, this is bad. Her cop armor is entirely unavailable.

But something about the encounter has her cop senses alerted, and as her head clears she takes a moment to think about it. When he left yesterday, he was disgruntled, unhappy with the resolution of the case. And then he shows up at the precinct even before her-

She sits up suddenly. "He didn't." Riffling through her paperwork, she feels her heart sink. "Oh, he did." So the book, the kiss on the cheek, all just a ruse to distract her while he made off with evidence. Typical. She's such an idiot.

But she's still a detective, so she detects. It doesn't take long to find his home phone number, which is answered by a trilling female voice that identifies itself as belonging to his mother, the actress. He lives with his mother?

"Oh yes, Detective, dear. He told me all about it. So kind of you to put up with him 'helping' with your investigation." Beckett can practically hear the woman making air-quotes around the word.

"Well, it seemed only reasonable considering the connection with his books," she half-lies, and works the conversation around to the topic of where the famous author might have gone. His mother readily gives up his favorite study location, and shortly Beckett is striding into the NYPL with uniforms in tow.

"Richard Castle, you are under arrest for felony theft and obstruction of justice." She really wishes he looked more contrite. Or anything other than smug. It's infuriating. He almost looks like he was expecting her -- waiting for her. She wonders fleetingly whether he expected her to come alone. Was he picturing a dirty tryst between the stacks? Her cheeks heat up again.

"You know, for a minute there you actually made me believe-" She stops herself quickly, turns away. She shouldn't have said that. She shouldn't be feeling ... whatever this is. Disappointed, rejected. Hurt. Damn it. "Cuff him."

"Ooh, bondage," he jokes and she winces, but turns back to finish the banter and make sure they get all the evidence gathered up. He's trying to catch her eye, but she steadfastly refuses to look at his face, refuses to listen to him yelling about rose varieties.

Back at the precinct, she has the uniforms take him to booking, while she goes to do damage control with Captain Montgomery. Fortunately, this isn't necessary. She finds the captain conferring with two redheads, one of whom is the diva Beckett spoke to earlier, and the other -- Oh. Beckett realizes that this must be his daughter, nine years older; a teenager. And, oh yes, she was at the book party the other night. Watching her dad get hauled away by cops. Beckett hopes that was a new -- and not too traumatizing -- experience for the kid.

No one, it seems, is upset with Beckett for having arrested Castle. If anything, everyone -- including the teenager -- seems to feel that it was inevitable. His mother and daughter take him away, and Beckett is left to fill out paperwork and try, unsuccessfully, to stop thinking about the things he said. About the dress being the wrong color, the roses the wrong variety. About the sequence of murder victims and the way they relate to Kyle.

Damn Castle. As angry as she is at him right now, damn it, he's right. It doesn't fit.


	7. Entrapment

Beckett is again unsurprised, almost resigned, when Castle turns up at Jonathan Tisdale's office building. Of course he does, just after having looked Montgomery in the eye and agreed not to interfere any more.

Beckett imagines that she's almost starting to get used to this maelstrom of conflicting emotions that she hasn't been able to shake since walking into Alison Tisdale's apartment. Can a person really exist permanently in this kind of unbalanced mental state? It's not true, though. She knows that she isn't really getting used to it, at all.

In the elevator, he stands just a little bit too close. "Great minds think alike, am I right, Detective?"

She sighs. "Castle, you really shouldn't be here."

He takes another step closer. She can feel the heat of his body, the puff of his breath over her cheek.

"I'm here for the story, Detective Beckett. I'm not going away until I get it."

Is he talking about the Tisdale case, or...?

She drags her eyes up to look at him, reluctantly. His face is somehow only a foot away from hers, and her mouth is suddenly dry. She gets caught yet again in the endless blue of his eyes.

It's been nine years, so he's that much older, but still just as hot as he was back then. Hotter, maybe, from her perspective, because she's now had more experience in the world and has more basis for comparison. And none of the men she has met could hold a candle to Rick Castle. Not the one in her head, and certainly not the one here in the elevator, standing far too close to her for comfort, looking at her like that.

She bites her lower lip out of habit, and gasps a little when his eyes immediately flicker down to the movement, his body tilting even closer toward her.

The elevator door pings. Beckett lets out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding, and steps swiftly out the door.

She's frustrated when it turns out that Castle has a knack for interviewing. Even more so when he notices what she didn't: that Jonathan Tisdale shows subtle signs of having been sick. Interviewing the victim's brother suddenly feels urgent.

And twisting Castle's nose to get him to stop fooling around and talk wasn't as satisfying as she might have hoped. He's just so damn annoying and it doesn't help that she can't decide from one minute to the next whether she hates him or...not.

At least he follows her lead, mostly, on the interview with the brother. And Castle is subdued as they leave. "I was _sure_ it was him," he says unhappily, several times. She just can't resist tweaking his ego a bit before letting on that she knows the brother was lying. The satisfaction of having a real, viable suspect seems to have lowered her defenses slightly. She isn't even bothered -- much -- by Castle's familiarity with their judge; at least it might help them get the warrant signed in timely fashion.

"You know," Castle says in the car on the way to the courthouse, "if you had seen the connection to my book after the Fisk murder, before Alison Tisdale, we never would have figured out it was Harrison."

"We?" she repeats acidly, to cover up her surprise at his statement. He ignores her and goes on.

"I mean, think about it. If all you'd had was the Fisk crime scene, and it led you to me and my fan mail, you would have arrested Kyle Cabot and thought the case was closed."

How? How does he seem to know just what she's thinking, what she's worrying about? She isn't transparent; she's hard to read, everyone says so. Except Castle. The jerk.

"Maybe," she says reluctantly. "But Harrison would still have been out there, plotting to kill his sister. If we had Kyle in custody before he killed Alison, he would have had to change his plan. So Kendra Pitney would probably still be alive."

She focuses on the road, not looking over at Castle. She can feel him looking at her, though.

"You can't possibly blame yourself for that," he says, sounding surprised.

"Can't I?"

"No, look, I mean, if not Kendra, he would have killed someone else to throw you off-track, right? And if he weren't using my books as a guide, he would have used something else, maybe something you wouldn't have caught on to as fast. Maybe you never would have caught him at all, and Kyle would be rotting in prison for a crime he didn't commit."

"I would have caught him," she snaps, anger flaring. Castle puts up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Okay, okay. You would have, eventually. But the point is, you recognizing the Fisk crime scene sooner wouldn't have helped."

Beckett parks the car and turns to face Castle fully. "What are you doing?" Is he trying to make her feel better? What is this?

He shrugs, looks like he doesn't really know either. "I'm just saying."

"Well, stop it and come on." She surges out of the car, suddenly needing to be in motion, to find the judge and get the right guy into custody.

And then, of course, it all goes to hell. She thought she had secured Castle out of harm's way, but he gets himself out of her handcuffs -- how on earth? -- and gets taken hostage. She seriously cannot believe this guy. What the hell? Why is he _still_ talking, saying things he knows will enrage the _killer_ who currently has a gun to his head?

Still trying to get the whole story. For fuck's sake. Castle.

When all is said and done and she's kneeling over Harrison Tisdale with the handcuffs, she lets her feelings get the best of her for one moment, giving Castle a hard shove against the wall -- a shove that contains all of her anger, frustration, hurt, and everything else. "What the hell were you thinking? You could have gotten yourself killed."

"Well, the safety was on the whole time." He grins goofily, still high on the adrenaline rush, and adds, "Nice to know that you're concerned for my welfare, though, Detective."

She steadies her breathing, suddenly acutely aware of the nearness of Castle, and of the murderer lying on the ground under and between them. She gets up, quickly, and gets back to work.

A little while later, as Tisdale is being taken away, she hears Castle clear his throat behind her. Reluctantly, she turns. This time it really is going to be the last time she has to look at him, talk to him. Think about him. Really the last time.

"Well," she says, to get it over with, "I guess this is it."

"It doesn't have to be." His eyes are intent again, boring into her. "We could go to dinner, debrief each other."

 _Debrief_ ? Really? "Why, Castle? You don't have enough conquests already?" 

"Do you?"

She stares at him. What is that supposed to mean? 

"You got the story, Castle. It's what you wanted, isn't it?"

"No," he says, and then twitches a little, blinking, as if he hadn't meant to say that. "I mean, yes, I got this story. A much better one than Kyle Cabot, that's for sure." He pauses, serious again. "But ... it's not the ending I was looking for."

Beckett can't handle any more of these soft words, weighted with meaning. She puts her hands in her pockets and nods formally.

"It was nice meeting you, Castle."

And once again she turns and walks away from him.

* * *

Another night, another box of takeout eaten on the couch, another imaginary conversation with Dr. Nelson.

 _We closed the case. It's over. I won't have to see him again,_ Beckett tells the therapist in her head.

As usual, the response is _And how do you feel about that?_

 _Relieved,_ she tries, but it sounds unconvincing. Even she, let alone imaginary Dr. Nelson, doesn't buy it.

 _Kate, maybe you should think about why you react so strongly to him,_ she hears the therapist say, an echo of other conversations long ago. _Once, I asked you why you got so upset after your last encounter with him, and why it further upset you when he asked for your phone number. Do you remember what you said?_

Reluctantly, she makes herself answer the question, even though she feels a little silly interrogating herself.

 _I said that I was scared. Of feelings. Mine, and his._ She shifts uncomfortably on her sofa.

_We spent a lot of time working on that fear, didn't we, Kate?_

_Yes. And it worked. I've had relationships since then, healthy ones. Or at least, normal ones._

_So what's different about this, now?_

She stops at that point. She doesn't know how to answer the questions she's asking herself. Maybe she's too scared of the answers.

Maybe she should call Dr. Nelson for real.

Her eye roams over to the front door and catches on the little entryway table, where she drops her keys. The box is sitting there where she dumped it when she came in. The box, containing Castle's latest book. _Storm Fall_.

She can put it all behind her again now; the case is over. She doesn't have to think about him any more. She can ignore the book and go on her merry way.

She gets up and retrieves the book, curls her legs underneath her on the couch, and opens to the first page.

* * *

The next morning, as soon as Beckett has put her purse down on her desk, Captain Montgomery is calling her into his office.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

At first she can't understand why he's talking to her about the mayor and fans. But then he drops it on her.

Castle. Of course.

"Seems he's found the main character for his next set of novels: a tough but savvy female detective."

Goosebumps rise all over her skin. Really? He's going to write a whole book, a whole set of books, about ... her? A character based on her?

Her head spins. She hopes she isn't blushing in front of her commanding officer. Oh, she should probably say something. The captain's waiting for her response.

"I'm ... flattered?"

"Don't be," Montgomery replies immediately, and because she knows the captain so well, she can see that he's enjoying what he's about to say. "He says he needs to do ... research."

Oh shit. No way. He can't.

She tries to protest, but of course she can already see that Montgomery's mind is made up. It's too late. She's trapped. And then there he is -- Castle -- in the doorway, smirking his most self-satisfied smirk ever. 

She hates him so much.

Montgomery practically shoves them out the door, sending them to briefing to meet with an NYPD lawyer. He's not there yet, so she takes the opportunity to turn her angriest glare on Castle and demand, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

He's unruffled. "Did you read it?"

She blinks, completely derailed. "What?"

"The book. _Storm Fall_. Did you read it yet?"

The man is so infuriating. No way will she admit that she devoured the whole thing last night, staying up far later than she should have.

"You only just gave it to me yesterday, Castle."

"Well, did you start it at least?"

"Will you stop changing the subject?" she snaps. "I told you-"

"I'm not changing the subject," he interrupts calmly. "If you'd read the book, which I think you probably did but you don't want to admit it, then you know that Derrick dies at the end."

Beckett folds her arms across her chest defensively. "So?"

"So ... to be entirely honest with you, Detective," he says, his expression radiating sincerity and a touch of boyish embarrassment, "ever since my publishers found out that I was planning to kill Derrick, they've been hounding me to get started on a new series. And I didn't have one in mind." He ducks his head, the embarrassment becoming a little more prominent. "It's, uh, possible that I may have led them to believe that I already had a new book in the works. Which I didn't. But then you walked into my book party, and I got into the case with you, and the inspiration hit."

She leans back, arms still folded, eyes narrowed. "So, you're serious about this? You're really going to write a new book about, about a character based on me?"

"Oh yeah." He lifts his head, eyes shining with eagerness. "It's already in the works, coming along great. I've already written four and a half chapters." A half-smile twists his lips. "Of course, if experience is any judge, at least one of them will have to be scrapped entirely, and one or two will need major reworking. But still, the _bones_ are there."

Beckett truly doesn't know what to say. While she's dithering, he takes a step closer and lowers his voice, serious now.

"Listen, don't worry. I get it. We just met a few days ago and we hardly know each other." She sucks in a breath. Does he mean what she thinks he means? "I'm not going to...." He pauses, examining her face. "Well, I still want the story, _Kate_. But I'll behave." He pauses again, looking for her reaction.

She swallows, trying not to drown in his eyes again. She can see that he's trying to, what, make a peace offering? "Okay." She feels like more is called for, but doesn't know what to make of it. "Um." 

The department lawyer chooses that moment to walk in, briefcase in hand, dour frown on face. "Mr. Castle? Detective Beckett?"

There follows a long and boring process of reading and signing paperwork, during which Castle cracks jokes and Beckett tries to sort out her feelings, yet again. Richard Castle writing a book about her -- holy crap. The mere thought brings the goosebumps popping up again. Richard Castle following her around everywhere, on the other hand....

She's unreasonably excited to get a call about a new murder case in the middle of the paperwork. She feels not the slightest qualm about leaving Castle behind.

Of course, he shows up at the crime scene anyway. It couldn't have been that easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has commented so far. I love hearing what you are thinking of the story. Please feel free to use the comment box or private message me under this same username at FFnet.


	8. Acclimatization

So they work the nanny murder case together -- Castle following Beckett for research almost immediately becomes Castle participating in the investigation -- and it's fine. Awkward at first, because Beckett has never been the type to work with someone else; that works well for Ryan and Esposito, but she has always been most effective on her own. So the first few times Castle tries to participate in interviews, she's irritated and twitchy. But she slowly starts to get the hang of it: the give and take, bouncing questions back and forth; it starts to feel almost natural, comfortable. It's uncanny how often Castle jumps in with the exact question she was going to go to next. 

In between the interviews, he asks a lot of questions about police procedure, and takes notes. It's a more serious side of him than she has seen before.

Of course, he also teases, jokes, and prods -- not just her, but the captain and the boys also. At first his little flirtatious or suggestive comments put her on edge, but slowly she comes to realize that this is just who he is. Annoying, irritating, for sure; bordering on sexual harassment once or twice; but it's got nothing to do with their ... history. She isn't sure how she knows, but she just knows: he would be like this with her regardless. It's just him.

Along the way, she learns that Castle has been married twice, divorced twice. She wonders what happened there. Clearly, one marriage had already been and gone before she met him, all those years ago: the marriage that produced his daughter. The way he talks about Alexis, the way his whole face softens with pride and adoration, goes a long way toward mitigating the more exasperating aspects of his personality. Seeing him as a father is endearing; thinking about him as a husband is ... troubling.

And, for whatever reason, Castle does what he said he would: he keeps up the pretense. He says nothing whatsoever that could possibly imply that he had ever met Beckett prior to the Tisdale case. He calls her Detective or Beckett, never Kate. She keeps looking at him from her peripheral vision and wondering why. What is he thinking? Why is he choosing to go along with this? What does he really think of her, want from her?

Then they're in the interrogation room with the philandering neighbor, the man who was having an affair with the dead nanny; and when Castle butts in at a sensitive moment, Beckett flicks her eyes at him, a single quick movement of just her eyeballs, telling him to sit down and shut up. 

And he does. 

He sits down and shuts up. Not for long, of course -- the guy really does not know how to keep quiet -- but the mere fact that he interpreted her eye gesture correctly, and _obeyed_ it, gives her plenty to think about.

Or it would have, but all of a sudden they're in a basement with a distraught young woman and a knife. Beckett inches into the laundry room and is so intent on getting the girl's confidence that she forgets all about her new "shadow" until he bangs the door. Anger surges up in her chest, so sudden and hot that she almost chokes on it before forcing her focus back onto the girl in front of her.

"Guys can be like that sometimes, Chloe. They can lie." She doesn't look at Castle. Belatedly wising up, he keeps his mouth shut and his body still, not drawing any attention to himself, the entire time Beckett is carefully talking the young nanny down. When the knife clatters on the floor she sees Castle in her peripheral vision slumping against the wall with relief. She feels a little weak with it herself.

Case closed, the injured man being treated, the murderous nanny taken away in handcuffs, Castle approaches Beckett on the street.

"So," he says, grinning boyishly, "looks like I managed to make it through the case without getting injured, shot, or killed."

Against her will she feels a smile tugging up the corners of her mouth. "Yeah, well, maybe tomorrow." How has she gone so quickly from hating him, wanting him out of her life, to _maybe tomorrow_?

He compliments her handling of the case, and she wonders yet again what he's doing, who he is ... and how long this can go on.

She goes home and lies in bed thinking, _You have to do something, Kate. You can't keep this up forever._ She doesn't even bother with the imaginary therapist.

She can't continue pretending that she and Castle just met. She can't ask him to keep pretending either; it's not fair to him. Annoying and infuriating though he is, he doesn't deserve that.

What he deserves is an explanation, but she's not sure she has one that she can give.

* * *

The next day there's a new murder, a new trail to go down. A teenage boy found floating in a boat.

The upscale prep-school setting opens up a whole new side of Castle. He asks the right questions; he's comfortable in the opulent homes of the upper-class families whose teenage children are at the center of the case; he speaks their language. 

And his leaps of logic are actually useful. When he comes rushing into the precinct full of excitement over his latest realization about the rich kids' lies, he doesn't even seem to realize that he's invading Beckett's personal space.

She realizes it, though. She's on fire, tingling from head to toe at the nearness of him, after he pulls his chair far too close to hers and tries to grab her hand. She pulls it back as if stung. He's babbling on about the kids and the money, and she's listening, taking in the sense of it, but all the while her hand is buzzing from that brief touch; her stomach twists in response to the heat of his body.

It's almost a relief when Esposito speaks up, breaking the tension. They all recognize that Castle has found a big piece of the puzzle, so they're back in action.

Dealing with the repulsive teenage boy at the center of it all brings something new out in Castle as well. They stand outside the haughty private school and the kid sneers "Look, Detective, you're hot and everything..." and Beckett knows that Castle is looking at her. She can feel that he's -- what, angry? disgusted? something like that -- she can sense it without even looking at him, but she can't let it distract her.

She keeps her poker face in place, her attention laser-sharp on the boy. The suspect. She knows in her bones that this kid is guilty, so she stays focused. He dares her to prove it, and she will.

And she does. She gets the proof and gets the kid into the interrogation room. Her cop armor is on, impermeable, at least as far as this slimeball is concerned. She's completely composed.

The same can't be said for Castle. When the boy runs his sleazy eyes over Beckett's chest and expresses his desire to grope her, she can sense Castle absolutely vibrating with fury beside her. She shoots him a glance, quelling, and at the same time granting permission. Then she sits back, cool as a cucumber, to see what he can do.

And Castle steps up. He handles the boy masterfully, first drawing him into the privileged-rich-kid brotherhood, then carefully ratcheting up the levels of condescending disdain until the kid, all unknowingly, gives himself up. Beckett mostly just sits there, putting in a clarifying comment here and there. For the most part it's Castle's kill, and he nails it.

After the boy is taken away to booking, Castle catches up with Beckett in the break room, where she's clearing up the paperwork.

"Glad to see the back of that kid," he comments, leaning against the wall.

"Yeah." She looks over at him. "Nice job getting the confession out of him."

"Really?" His face lights up at the praise. "I was pretty awesome, wasn't I?"

She rolls her eyes. "Apparently you have a knack for getting into the privileged teenage boy mindset. Not sure it's something to brag about."

"I wasn't privileged when I was a teenager. And I wasn't anything like that asshole, back then, or ever," he says, quieter, frowning. She cocks her head at him. He almost looks...hurt?

"I'm sure you weren't," she placates. "I mean, as far as I know you didn't actually murder anyone, so you're ahead of him right there."

"No, I'm serious," he says, and he clearly is. "Look, Beckett, I did a lot of stupid obnoxious shit when I was younger -- okay, maybe I still do -- but I never, _never_ treated women like that."

"I know you didn't," she says, softly, stunned by his sudden intensity.

"The way he looked at you, the disgusting things he said. I don't know how you put up with that." The anger is back, tension written in every line of his body.

"I'm a female cop, Castle. I get that crap all the time. Occupational hazard."

"Well, that doesn't make it okay," he says vehemently, scowling.

"No," she says slowly, still trying to figure him out. "It's not okay, but not everything that happens to us in life is okay. We still have to deal with it."

He stops, stands absolutely still for a heartbeat, staring at her. "Beckett." He takes a step closer to her. "Kate, what happened? What really happened?" His expression is almost desperate, almost anguished.

She takes in a deep, shaky breath. He deserves to know. He _needs_ to know. She just doesn't think she's strong enough.

"Castle..."

"Just tell me," he pleads.

"I will," she promises weakly, a whisper. "I will when I can." She gulps. "I just need some more time."

"Time?" Abruptly he straightens, blinks, gives a little yelp of dismay. "Oh shit, what time is it?" He checks his watch. "Oh crap. I gotta go. I'm sorry."

Beckett clears her throat, bewildered. "What? Where are you going?"

"I - look, I'm so sorry. Really." He looks a little panicked. "It was kind of last-minute, but I agreed to chaperone my daughter's school trip to Washington DC. I gotta get home and pack."

Oh. Well, that's sweet. She does lo- _appreciate_ how dedicated he is to parenting.

"That sounds great, Castle. Have a good time." She wants to ask when he'll be back, but somehow the words won't come past her throat.

"Okay. Okay. Um, see you in a few days." He gives her one last lingering glance and rushes out.

Beckett sinks into the nearest chair, her face burning. A few days? Thank goodness. Maybe that'll give her a chance to get her head back together.

She can stand to go a few days without seeing him. Of course she can. No problem.

* * *

They pass a quiet couple of days at the 12th Precinct without Castle around. A body drops, but it turns out to be a straightforward "Jack shot Jill over Bill," in Esposito's phrasing, so they wrap it up quickly. Beckett is called upon to testify in court about a previous case, which takes up most of one day. Aside from that, she does paperwork and tries to keep her mind occupied.

The third day, on a whim, she looks up her old friend David. She hasn't seen him since their 5-year college reunion. His former phone number doesn't work, so she googles him and discovers that he's teaching at NYU. The university website gives her his office phone number, and she gets in touch.

David doesn't seem to have changed a bit. "Oh my god, Becks! It's so fabulous to hear from you!" are his first words when she gets him on the phone. "Let's get together for drinks and catch up." Over tapas at a trendy restaurant they hug and reconnect.

David tells her that he's getting married in Connecticut in a couple of months. "You know, they legalized it there last year, and we just decided, screw it, we're sick of waiting for New York to get its shit together."

"That's great. I'm so happy for you," she says sincerely. He's beaming, glowing with happiness.

"Oh, thanks, honey. I can't wait for you to meet Scott! And you should totally come to the wedding. You're on the list, in fact! How funny is that? I put you on there even before you called."

"You don't have to give me that polite lie bullshit," she laughs, but he pokes her shoulder lightly and swears it's true.

"I promise, Becks. I was going to send the invitation to you at your dad's house, because I didn't have your current address." He studies her as she scribbles her address on a napkin. "Your dad, how is he?"

"Oh, he's good. He's much better." She smiles softly. "We're both much better, really."

"I can see that." David covers her hand with his. "You look good, girlfriend. Really good. I love the short hair on you."

"Thanks," she murmurs, squeezing his hand.

"Welcome. So, you have someone?"

"Right to the point," Kate laughs, ducking her head, trying not to blush.

"Oh, you do!" He pokes her again, turns to order them more drinks. "Spill, girl."

"There's nothing to spill. Really, David, honest. I'm not seeing anyone right now."

"Hmm." He studies her for a moment. "Well, whoever he is, you and he better get that act together before my wedding. I better see a plus-one on your RSVP."

She tries, she really tries not to picture herself showing up for a wedding on Castle's arm. She fails. The mental picture makes her squirm, and David sees it, but he restrains himself, just putting a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Really, Becks. Don't make me find you a lesbian to be your fake date. 'Cause I'll do it."

They both burst out laughing, and the next couple of hours fly by in comfortable conversation.

Beckett gets back to her apartment late, tipsy and warmed by the pleasant time spent with her old friend. She runs a hot bath and sinks into the bubbles.

Unbidden, the thought of weddings and Castle comes back into her mind. She tries to push it away, but that's useless. She finds her hand drifting under the water, slipping down her stomach and between her legs.

She leans her head back on the edge of the tub and tells herself that she is _not_ touching herself while thinking about Castle. She isn't. She's not thinking about Castle in a tux, or Castle out of a tux. His big warm hands, his broad shoulders, his soft mouth.

Her hand moves slowly, then faster, and she closes her eyes and shudders in release.

A few minutes later, when she's drying herself off and moisturizing, she starts to blush as she thinks about what she just did in the tub. She shouldn't...that isn't how she sees this ending up, really. Her odd partnership with Castle. It's not moving toward...anything of that nature.

No. Here's how it's going to go: eventually, she's going to work her way up to telling him the truth about her mother, the books, and all of it. She'll explain that the girl he met back then was a lie, an act. Whatever he might have thought (or felt?) about that girl, it doesn't matter because she was pretending to be something she wasn't. 

He'll understand, because he was acting at the time too. He was pretending not to be a bestselling author with a string of supermodels in his little black book.

So she'll explain, and he'll understand, and when he's followed her around long enough to get all the material he needs for his book, he'll go away and write the book and go back to his life. And Beckett will get back to her life, without him, and everything will be fine.

Yes. That's where this is going. That's what she wants. She nods firmly at herself in the mirror as she slips into her nightgown.

She slides into bed and sees in her mind an image of Dr. Nelson, doing that little head-shake of hers and saying tactfully, _Let's think about this some more, Kate._

She doesn't want to think about it some more. She squeezes her eyes shut and wills sleep to come quickly.


	9. Character Witnesses

The next morning Beckett is deeply annoyed by the little flutter of excitement that rises in her belly when Castle comes sauntering into the bullpen, giving high-fives to everyone he passes. "Good morning, Detectives! What'd I miss?"

"Not much. Nice of you to grace us with your presence again, Castle." She watches him yawn as he plops into the chair beside her desk. "How was DC?"

"DC was great. Chaperoning several dozen teenagers, not so great." He blinks tiredly at her. "You would not _believe_ how much trouble those kids made after lights-out at the hotel every night."

"Actually, I probably would," she murmurs, grinning down at her desk as Ryan and Esposito come over to greet Castle with high-fives and shoulder slaps. 

Castle's attention sharpens on her. "What? Do you have naughty high-school field trip memories to share, Beckett?"

"I certainly do not," she says primly, giving him and the sniggering boys her death glare. Castle just smiles at the sight.

"Ahh, I missed you too, Detective." He yawns again. "So, what's our case?"

"No case right now, bro," Esposito tells him, "but you're more than welcome to help out with the paperwork."

"Hah, not likely," Ryan chimes in. "Haven't you seen how quickly Castle disappears when it's paperwork time?"

"One of the many perks of being an unofficial civilian investigator," he proclaims airily, spoiling the effect with yet another yawn.

"Castle, go home," Beckett says, rolling her eyes. "We don't want you doing paperwork anyway when you can't even keep your eyes open. Get some sleep."

"You wound me, Detective," he says, clambering wearily to his feet, "but I accept. Call me if there's a murder."

* * *

There's no murder the rest of that day, but Castle shows up the next morning anyway, looking much more rested, but uncharacteristically twitchy. He makes himself a cup of coffee in the break room and then sits beside Beckett's desk, complaining at great length and in great detail about how bad the coffee is.

His first day back and he's already getting on her nerves. Why is he even here? Wait, isn't today the day of- "Don't you have a book coming out today or something?"

"Yeah, so?"

In a minute she has it figured out. His newest book is out and he's nervous. Hiding at the precinct? It seems ridiculous, but then, what does she really know about the artistic temperament?

Fortunately for both of them, the call comes in. They've got a case.

After viewing the crime scene and identifying the victim -- a local politician -- Beckett and Castle go to the victim's home to notify his wife. Afterward, in the car, he comments, "It can't be easy, breaking that kind of news." 

"Yeah, well..." At least he behaved himself, though, as promised. "Thanks for not making it a joke."

He's taking notes again, and Beckett can't resist asking a question that has begun to nag at her. "This female detective of yours, exactly how much will she be based on me?"

"Well, she's not too bright, and uh, kinda slutty." He tries to keep a straight face, without much success. She gives him a look and he softens. "No, honestly, you're not gonna have anything to be embarrassed about." And he gets a misty, unfocused look to his eyes as he describes how smart, good-looking, and capable his character is. "...And kinda slutty."

"Castle!" But his phone rings and he escapes into a call from his mother, leaving Beckett to stew over what he has said. Should she be worried about 'kinda slutty'? Is that what he thinks of Beckett, of the Kate he met long ago? Is it wish-fulfillment? Or just artistic license? Or is it him just trying to rile her up?

Exactly how anxious should she be about the idea of a book based on her, a book that anyone will be able to read and draw assumptions from? Should she be worried about her dad reading it? Her boss?

She can't ask Castle these questions, but she frets about them all the way to the victim's campaign office, and they continue to nag at the back of her mind the whole time they're chasing after political rivals and missing rugs.

Speaking of slutty, it turns out that their victim had been having an affair with an upscale prostitute. Beckett gets Ryan and Esposito onto tracking down the call-girl website owners, but Castle, in typical fashion, decides to cut to the chase.

Beckett chases him across the bullpen, trying to grab his phone, but it's too late; he has already left a message for the woman.

"Castle, you can't just call and arrange a date with a prostitute!"

"Why not?" he asks, looking genuinely surprised.

"Because we're the police!" She is so exasperated with him. Some things ought to be obvious.

"No, no. You're the police. I'm just a lonely upscale gentleman looking for a date." She crosses her arms and scowls blackly. He leans in closer and lowers his voice. "I'm not going to sleep with her, if that's your concern, Detective."

That is _not_ her concern. At all. Damn him.

Then, to make matters worse, it turns out that Castle has bought a fancy new coffee machine for the precinct. The boys are dazzled. Beckett is just cranky. She grabs her purse and goes to find Lanie.

Visiting her friend in the morgue after hours turns out to be less than successful as a distraction technique, because all Lanie seems to want to talk about is ... Castle. Specifically, why Beckett should be hooking up with him. Apparently, Lanie thinks that he could be "fun." Beckett is sorely tempted to tell her friend just exactly how much fun Castle can be.

In fact, she is seriously considering coming clean to Lanie, telling her the whole story. Keeping the secret of her past with Castle has become exhausting, and she can't help thinking about what a relief it would be to let it all out. Lanie knows some of Beckett's past; she knows that Kate did a lot of stupid things in the period just after her mom died. And she's certainly a woman who understands both the attractions and the pitfalls of casual sex.

So it's on the tip of Beckett's tongue, she's that close to blurting out the whole story, when her phone rings. The man himself, of course. "Guess who's got a date with a prostitute!" he sings, and Beckett wonders whether it's physically possible to roll one's eyes so hard that they actually fall out of one's head.

At least he has had the sense to schedule the meeting for tomorrow afternoon, rather than a dinner date. "I hope you know the NYPD will not reimburse you for any drinks you buy, Castle."

"Not to worry, Detective. I can write it off as a research expense." Ugh, the man is impossible.

And his interruption has caused Beckett to lose her nerve. She goes out for drinks with Lanie and doesn't say anything about Castle. They pass the evening chatting about clothes, movies, music, and office gossip.

Beckett gets home late and a little maudlin from too many margaritas. She's grateful, for once, to be just a little too drunk to manage any deep thoughts. She strips off her clothes and drops straight into bed.

* * *

She wakes up still annoyed with Castle, although even in her fuzzy morning state she knows she isn't being enormously rational. He's only trying to help with the case. He doesn't really think that Beckett is 'kinda slutty.' Does he? 

Why must he be so annoying, and so sexy? Why must she have ... thoughts ... about him that she doesn't know what to do with? 

She has a headache already, and it's not a hangover; it's a Castle headache. She needs some coffee. And not from Castle's fancy new machine, damn it.

It gets worse. The prostitute is actually mildly useful. At least Castle doesn't gloat...much.

After the woman leaves, Beckett sits for another moment in her chair in the restaurant, taking some mental notes, organizing her thoughts about the case.

"What next?" Castle asks from across the table. She's been trying not to look at him. Something about the deep blue of his shirt and how casually comfortable he is in this very nice restaurant. And, of course, the fact that he brought her here to meet a hooker.

"Well, we need to track down this blackmail angle, obviously," she says, distracted, her mind chasing down several avenues of inquiry at once.

"Do you know what I do sometimes when I can't figure something out?"

Beckett comes out of her reverie and looks at him skeptically. This ought to be good. "Okay, I'll bite. What?"

"I just ask myself, what would Derrick Storm do?"

"Really?" She can't help the laugh that bursts out of her at that. "Seriously? Your own fictional character is whom you turn to for advice?" He grins back.

"You mock me -- with impeccable grammar, I might add -- but yes, it is true. It works." The grin subsides; his tone becomes more serious. "Well, it mostly works. There was this one time-" He pauses, considering her for a moment, and goes on more slowly. "This one time, a girl wouldn't give me her phone number."

Beckett's smile drops away as well. A nervous knot develops in the pit of her stomach.

"After she had gone," he continues quietly, looking down at the table, "I realized that I didn't even know her last name -- that I had no way to find her again. So I thought, what would Derrick Storm do? And as soon as I had the answer, I wanted to kick myself."

"Why? What would Storm have done?" she can't help asking, entirely drawn in by his soft voice. This is so not the right time or place to be talking about this, but...

"He would have gone through her purse while she was in the shower."

"What?" she exclaims, shocked. Now that was certainly not what she expected to hear.

"Yeah," he goes on, nodding, "to find her driver's license or something. Anything that would have her last name on it, her address, maybe even a phone number. There would've had to be something in there to tell him how to find her afterward."

Beckett just blinks at him for a moment. "But ... that would have been a major violation of her privacy."

"Yeah, it would," he agrees immediately. "And I'd love to say that's why I didn't do it." He ducks his head, one corner of his mouth quirking upward in a rueful smile.

She nods, getting it. "But the truth is, you just didn't think of it in time."

He mirrors her nod. "Proving once again that I should always consult the wisdom of Derrick Storm sooner, rather than later."

"I don't know, Castle." She cocks her head, considering him. "I think what that story proves is that Derrick Storm is a bit of an asshole."

His jaw drops; he gapes at her. "You did not just say that."

"I did." She stands up. "Let's go."

They spend the rest of the day following the money, trying to identify their victim's mystery blackmailer. Only at the very end of the evening, as Castle and the boys are enjoying the fruits of the new coffee maker and Beckett is stubbornly sticking with the precinct's own blend of motor oil, does the name pop up. Really? The private investigator? None of them saw that coming.

"Well, let's pick him up first thing in the morning," she says, and leaves them to their premium coffee.

Lying in bed, she can't stop thinking about Castle's admission. It's so ridiculous, to think of him berating himself for not having gone digging in her purse for her contact information. But at the same time ... maybe it's kind of sweet?

 _I had no way to find her again_ , he said; clearly implying that he would have wanted to find her. Why? Would he have been looking for a convenient body to warm his bed when he wanted it, a "friend with benefits" at his beck and call? Or was it more than that?

Kate discussed both of those possibilities and more with Dr. Nelson, way back when. At the time, she didn't know which of them scared her the most. Now, years later, she still isn't sure.

* * *

The next day goes by in a whirlwind. Beckett gets the P.I. in the box and he reveals that the victim had an enormous amount of cash with him when he was killed. Trying to track down where that money came from takes up the rest of the day, with little success.

Castle takes some of the political donors' names home to research them, and Beckett is left alone at her desk at the end of the day, combing through financial records in search of a quarter million dollars.

It's late, and the precinct is quiet. She finds herself staring at her empty coffee cup, thinking about the appreciative noises Ryan and Esposito -- especially Ryan -- made over the coffee from Castle's expensive new espresso machine.

She looks around. There's hardly anyone here at this hour, and no one is paying her any attention.

She grabs her cup and sidles guiltily into the break room.

The machine makes pleasant little noises while it's brewing: bubbling, clicking, whirring noises that soothe the ear and seem to say _just you wait...it's all going to be worth it._ The smell wafting up as the cup fills is almost nirvana in itself. She closes her eyes, savoring the anticipation.

"Hi!"

She startles, jerking the handle of the cup, spilling all the coffee out. Castle! Damn it.

"Hi," she snaps back, feeling her cheeks grow warm, hoping he doesn't notice. 

"There's something I need to show you." He's so excited about his revelation that he doesn't seem to have registered her little lapse in self-control.

His new theory is that their victim's wife knew about the affair and the blackmail; that she, in fact, was the one who provided the payoff money. It's a good theory, but not one they can do anything about until the morning.

"Okay, Castle. We'll bring her in tomorrow. Get some sleep."

"You too, Detective. You can't survive on coffee alone, you know. Even if it is foamy richness." His eyes twinkle at her briefly, and he departs before she can do any physical damage.

* * *

The next day they get the widow into the box, and she eventually coughs up the identity of the killer: the victim's campaign manager. The case wrapped up, Beckett endures a bit of friendly teasing from Captain Montgomery, and is almost about to abuse Castle for laughing when his phone rings and he turns frantic and rushes out.

Oh yeah, Beckett suddenly remembers: he mentioned something about a book reading event tonight. An idea has been forming in the back of her mind ever since she heard about it. Watching him leave, she folds her arms over her chest and thinks, yes, a little taste of his own medicine might be just the thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to all readers and commenters. Please do feel free to let me know what you think. I love hearing from you.
> 
> Updates may be slower this week, as I will have less time to write and there are still some plot complications to work out. I promise not to leave you hanging for too long!


	10. Pain and Gain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As previously mentioned, some dialogue in this story is taken from series canon: sometimes verbatim, sometimes not. Additionally, some dialogue and events have been moved from one episode to another. Please continue to assume that all such changes are intentional.

* * *

Beckett slips in at the back of the bookstore just as Castle is finishing up the reading. The audience is riveted, still and silent; many of the women are clutching soggy tissues. Castle is reading aloud the final scene, the death of Derrick Storm, which of course Beckett has already read.

"'Good,' she thought, as the wind gathered up her hair."

The room is almost completely still as Beckett makes her way to a spot behind the rows of chairs. So her movement catches Castle's eye and he falters, his smooth narration pausing as he blinks in her direction.

"'No one...'" 

She just stands there, tipping her chin up slightly as if in challenge, holding eye contact with him across the sea of heads. The bookstore is almost silent except for the snuffling of the teary-eyed fans.

"'...will see my tears,'" he manages to finish, and the crowd bursts into applause, rising to their feet, blocking Beckett and Castle from each other's view. She can't help the satisfied smirk that twitches up the corners of her mouth.

When he finds her in the crowd a few minutes later, she can't resist the urge to needle him, making fun of his reading and his prose both. He gets it immediately. "Oh, you're telling me how to do my job."

"Irritating, isn't it?" she smirks.

Then his redheaded relatives are there, his mother flamboyant as always, and- "Let's just hope Nikki Heat does as well."

Beckett goes still. "Nikki Heat?" She sees Castle making an _uh-oh_ face and her veins turn to ice.

"The character he's basing on you," his mother trills cheerfully, oblivious. Beckett's face goes hot as she pulls him aside.

"What kind of a name is Nikki Heat?"

"A cop name," he says innocently.

"It's a stripper name," she bites out.

"Well, I told you she was kinda slutty." Right. It's everything she had feared, then. Anger bubbles in her chest, hot behind her eyelids.

"Change it, Castle."

He starts babbling about book titles and artistic integrity, grabbing a cardboard cutout of himself to hide behind as she pursues him. Furious now, she bats the cardboard aside to jab a finger into his chest.

"This," she hisses, bile rising in her throat, " _this_ is why that girl wouldn't give you her number. Because all you thought of her was 'kinda slutty.' You haven't changed a bit!"

"Whoa!" His face goes white, horror and astonishment stopping him in his tracks. "Beckett, no, wait-" She turns on her heel and stalks away but he rushes after her, grabs her arm hard -- the first time, she thinks inconsequentially, that he has touched her without permission -- and pulls her aside to a quiet spot between the aisles.

"That is _not_ what I thought of y - her, not at all," he says fiercely, gripping both her biceps and forcing her to look at him. "Nikki Heat has nothing to do with that, nothing. The publishers, the public, they like a name with some bite, and a name you can make puns with for titles. That's _all_."

"Take your hands off me," she grinds out, and he drops his hands from her arms as if he's been burned. He takes a careful step back, wide-eyed, holding his hands out to the sides.

"Beckett, I swear. I swear." Distress is written all over his face. "I didn't mean anything by the slutty thing. It was a stupid joke, and Nikki, she's, she's so much more than that. The name is just to pull people in. It's not like that. You have to believe me. Please."

She stares at him, her chest heaving with emotion. "Why?" she gets out, hating the way her voice trembles. "Why should I believe anything from you?"

"Because I-" He lifts his hands helplessly. "I don't know. Because of how well you know me by now. Because you know I wouldn't do that to you." She sees the tension in his body and knows how much he wants to step closer, to touch her again, to convince her. "I wouldn't. I don't think that. You have to know that."

Beckett sags back against the bookcases, shaking her head. Her anger drains away, leaving her feeling weak and cold and exhausted. She can hardly look at him. "I don't seem to know much of anything these days."

"Beckett," he whispers, essaying a tiny step toward her. "Don't-"

"I can't do this right now," she blurts out desperately. She slides out of his reach and flees.

She has never wanted to be the stereotypical woman crying in the back of a taxi, but she can't hold back a few hot tears that escape to run down her cheeks in the dark. She's trembling from adrenaline crash, her fingers twisted tightly together in her lap to keep them from shaking. The cab driver doesn't say anything; probably has seen it all and then some.

She gets home and splashes cold water on her face, which is futile, because more tears keep slipping out as she's changing her clothes and removing her makeup.

Eventually she pulls herself together, drinks some water, washes her face again, and curls up on the couch to try to get her head together.

Nikki Heat is still a stupid, awful name, but she's starting to feel guilty and embarrassed about how she reacted. Castle's denial of her accusations was certainly genuine, and she thinks -- no, she knows -- that he didn't choose the name to hurt her. If she's going to think rationally about it, it _is_ the kind of name that will sell. Just like he said.

She can't shake the memory of his expression as he was trying to convince her of his sincerity. He was really, truly upset. Surely he wouldn't have reacted that way if he did, deep down, think of her as nothing more than....

Has she had it all backwards this whole time? What was Rick pretending to be, back then? Which Castle is the real one?

She has closed herself off from him for so long, thinking that what he wanted was a girl who didn't exist, and something she couldn't give him. What if she was wrong?

Feeling a little queasy, congested from the crying, she finds that her phone is in her hand, Castle's number on the screen. Her thumb hovers over the call button.

She's been telling herself that he deserves the truth, hasn't she? How long can she expect him to wait?

She presses the button.

He answers immediately. "Beckett?" He sounds relieved, a little out of breath.

"Hey, Castle."

"Is there a murder?"

"What? No." She closes her eyes. "No, I called because I owe you an apology."

"Oh." She hears a faint thump and guesses that he has sat down. "No, you don't."

"I do. I, I shouldn't have said that tonight. About why ... she ... didn't give you her number. It wasn't like that."

"I think it was," he says, carefully. "At least, that was part of it. But it was more complicated than that, of course. Complicated and messy."

"Yes," she agrees, and doesn't know what else to say, how to begin.

"Can I tell you what I think?" he asks, after a moment. Beckett feels relief and a surge of warmth. He's helping her do this, and he doesn't have to, but he knows that she isn't good with words.

"Go ahead."

She hears him take a breath. "I promise you I don't think of ... that girl ... as slutty. That's not- But she did do a lot of one-night stands, didn't she, because she was trying to avoid thinking about some big trauma."

"Yes," she says again, low. "But it never worked for long enough."

Contemplative silence for a moment, and then he changes tack. "Why did y- she come to the book signing that day?"

"To get the book signed," she replies immediately, which is true, though not the whole truth.

"Did she read it?"

"Of course." Dare she admit to him -- now, or ever -- just how often she read the books, how much they meant to her? She squirms on the couch, embarrassed at the very thought.

"Before, or after the signing?"

She smiles a little, wondering if this is just ego. "Both."

A few more moments of silence. "I don't understand," he admits at last. "I don't get it, Beckett."

She sighs. "I know, and I want to explain. I just ... don't know how to do this."

"Well." She hears him sigh also. "One piece of the puzzle at a time, right?"

Oh. He's letting her off the hook for now? "Really?"

"Um. Yeah? Just ... how much do you hate the name?"

 _Nikki Heat_. Ugh. "I guess I'll have to get used to it."

"I'm really sorry, Beckett. You shouldn't have had to find out that way. I should have told you myself. My mother..." He huffs a half-laugh. "Well, my mother."

"Yeah. She's a force of nature." She smiles a little. "And I'm sorry for ... how I reacted. What I said. I shouldn't have."

"It's okay," he says calmly. "Get some sleep, Detective."

"Night, Castle."

* * *

The call comes in far too early the next morning. Beckett drags herself out of bed with a soft groan. As soon as she hangs her mother's ring around her neck, straps her father's watch around her wrist, she's on the job.

Esposito meets her at the scene, looking as tired as she feels. "Why can't they find bodies between nine and five?"

"Well, early bird gets the collar," she jokes.

Castle comes into view in the midst of the crowd of cops and cars. She raises her eyebrows.

"He was here before I was," Esposito comments.

Castle comes jogging over, all excitement. "Oh, finally you are here! You are gonna love this crime scene." He presses a paper cup into her hand. "Skim latte, sugar-free vanilla." Her mouth falls open.

"How did you-"

"I'm a novelist. It's my job to notice things." He takes her elbow lightly and steers her toward the interior of the construction site. "Come on, you gotta see this."

She's a little put off by his boyish glee, but when she sees the dead woman frozen solid on the scaffolding, she has to admit it's pretty fascinating.

"Awesome, right?" Castle chirps. "My first cold case."

Beckett and Esposito give him the stink-eye.

"Come on, it's a little funny."

It gets weirder. The victim turns out to have gone missing five years ago, and then they learn that her husband was also killed, more recently. Castle is convinced that the two murders must be related. Beckett isn't so sure, but in any case, they need to speak to the dead woman's parents.

In the car on the way to White Plains, she focuses on driving and on trying to keep her mouth shut. There's so much she wants to say to Castle, but the drive isn't all that long and she isn't all that sure that she can handle his replies.

"Why the bear claw?" he asks suddenly, startling her out of this quandary.

"What?"

"I noticed that you like a bear claw with your coffee. Why not a muffin, danish, scone, or of course the classic doughnut?"

She glances sideways at him, frowning slightly. "Is this research? What does it matter?"

"Just curious, Detective. I'm a chocolate croissant kind of guy myself."

She can't decide whether his interest in her breakfast pastry preferences is endearing or alarming.

"Bear claw's bigger," she says at last. "And the almonds give it some protein."

Talking to the victim's parents yields little new information, but reinforces the impression Beckett has already gotten from looking at the case file: that the detective in charge of the case five years ago did a decidedly half-assed job of it. Getting back into the car, she decides to pay the guy a visit.

The drive to New Jersey is longer, and she can feel Castle's eyes on her. "Castle, stop staring. It's creepy."

He clears his throat and looks away. "Not staring. Just, uh, regarding."

"What are you, a thesaurus?"

He chuckles softly. "I've been called worse."

"Castle," Beckett says, and tries to stop the question from coming out, but somehow it does anyway, "what would have happened, if that girl had given you her number?"

Silence for a long moment, as the car whizzes along the highway and Castle again regards her profile.

"I would have called her," he says at last. "Asked her to have dinner with me."

"Dinner?" she repeats, a little faintly.

"And if she had agreed, then I would have taken her to dinner and asked ... what I'd have to do to convince her." He takes a breath. "To convince her that I was ... that there was more to me than what you see on page six. To convince her that I was interested in getting to know her better. To convince her to give me a chance."

Beckett's mouth is dry. She swallows with difficulty, keeping her eyes glued to the road. If she looks at Castle now, she'll probably crash the car.

"Beckett."

She gasps a little at the fervent note in his voice. "What?"

"If I had done that. Called and asked her to dinner. Would she have said yes?"

She takes a careful breath, and another. "Probably not," she says at last. "She was too scared."

"Of what? Me?"

"No," she denies quickly, but then, "well...no. Of everything."

"She seemed pretty fearless to me."

"Yeah." Now she does risk a glance toward him, his expression open and curious. "Well, it's easy to act fearless with someone you think you'll never see again."

"Ahh," he breathes. "I see."

"Why are you doing this?" she asks, quietly. It's like she understands him completely but doesn't understand him at all. She wonders if he feels the same about her.

"Doing what? Following you? Writing the book?"

"Pretending." She wishes she hadn't said anything. But she really, really wants to know.

"Oh." He looks out the front window again and takes a few breaths. "You know why. For the story."

She isn't sure she buys it, but then they're pulling up to the restaurant to meet the ex-cop, so the moment is over.


	11. Burdens

The conversation with the former detective, who investigated their victim's disappearance five years ago, leaves Beckett frustrated and furious. Castle doesn't seem too impressed either.

"If I ever disappear, make sure this guy's not on my case."

"I hate cops like him," she growls, her hands tight on the steering wheel. "Guys like him, things only make sense if they fit in a box. So they make 'em fit, and murderers go free." 

"Is that what happened to your dad?" Castle asks, and her breath hitches, startled.

"My dad?" she repeats, confused. What on earth does he think he knows about her father?

"I noticed your watch," he says, gently. "Your dad's, right? That's why you wear it."

She looks over at him, her forehead creasing with uncertainty. She doesn't know what to do with the concerned, almost tender expression on his face. He's guessing bits of her story, some of them right, some wrong, and she can't help wondering how it would feel -- will feel -- when, or if, she manages to give him the whole picture.

The ring of her phone is a relief, but she can still feel Castle watching her with that same look the whole time she's talking to Esposito.

Ryan and Esposito have located the truck that was used to transport the body, which leads them to the storage unit and the freezer where the body was kept for five years. Which in turn opens up a new mystery, because the storage unit was still being paid for after the victim's husband died. So who was paying?

They need to look into the victim's ex-boyfriend, but it's late by now, so they call it a night. Castle goes home to his family, Esposito and Ryan to their favorite cop bar, and Beckett to a late movie. She needs an evening of distraction.

* * *

The next day, they get the name of the victim's ex-boyfriend and learn that he's currently in a New Jersey prison. So Beckett and Castle are in the car again, driving to Jersey once more.

Castle has brought her another latte, exactly the way she likes it, and a bear claw. She hates eating in the car, though, so she ate it at her desk before they set out.

"You know," Castle says as they leave the city limits, "I was still in college when I wrote my first best-seller."

"Yeah?" she replies, wondering where this is going.

"I was not at all prepared to handle instant fame and fortune. I was so naïve." He looks away, sighs. "I went a little crazy at first, buying every gadget in sight, going to wild parties, throwing wild parties of my own. Sleeping around."

Beckett still isn't sure why he's telling her this, but she doesn't speak, just listens.

"I was loving it, or I thought I was. Everyone wanted to be my friend, and I had never been popular before, so it felt so good." He shakes his head ruefully. "It took me way too long to realize that none of those people were really my friends. They all just wanted something from me -- money, influence, their faces on page six. Whatever. The women who threw themselves at me, same story. Even Meredith, my first wife, was really only in it for publicity. I didn't figure that out until we were already married and pregnant."

Beckett winces. She can see it with painful clarity: the earnest, eager-to-please young Rick Castle, so happy to be accepted, slowly realizing that not everyone likes him just for himself.

"After the divorce," he goes on, "I finally figured out that I wasn't that guy. I mean, I can be a wiseass and a jackass, but the crazy partying wasn't really my style." 

Beckett raises her eyebrows at that, but still keeps quiet, sensing that any interruption would jolt him out of the story.

"But by that point I already had a reputation, and Black Pawn, my publishers, loved it. It was good PR. So I kind of felt trapped in the role that I had unintentionally created for myself. I had to keep playing that persona. Partying, acting like a jerk, going out with a lot of different women. I didn't sleep with nearly as many of them as the tabloids would have you think." He glances sideways at Beckett, then looks down at his hands, folded in his lap.

Her thoughts are roiling uncomfortably as she listens to the story. She never would have guessed this: that he has been playing a part for so long. She should have thought about it, shouldn't she? Rather than just believing everything she read about him in the media?

He resumes talking, still looking down, quiet. "I was always looking for opportunities to take a break from all of that. A few friends I could be my real self with. Bars where no one would recognize me and I could flirt with women my own way."

He takes another deep breath, shakes his head again, and goes on.

"Then I went to a wedding and met a girl who didn't seem to know or care who I was. She was just interested in me for me."

Beckett's fingers tighten around the steering wheel. She bites her lip and keeps silent, trying to keep her breathing steady.

"I knew it was just sex, nothing more," he continues. "I did, and I was fine with that. Or I thought I was. It was just so nice to find that a woman might be attracted to me without an ulterior motive." He sighs again. "It was just a one-time thing, I knew that. I was determined to be okay with it, even though I couldn't stop thinking about her."

"And then she showed up again," Beckett puts in, unable to help herself. She sees him nodding, his face turned away from her now, looking out the window. Couldn't stop thinking about her? What does that mean? Her heart is pounding, loud in her ears.

"Yeah," he agrees. "And I was, I was so surprised. I _knew_ that she hadn't recognized me at the wedding. I'd gotten really good at spotting that kind of thing by then. But somehow she found out who I was, and came to the book signing. I thought..." He stops, and Beckett waits for him to go on. But he doesn't, and doesn't.

"What? You thought what?" she prompts at last. He sighs and shakes his head.

"It's stupid. So stupid."

"Tell me," she urges, although her heart is racing and she isn't sure she can take it.

Another sigh. "I thought it was, I don't know, fate. The universe, somehow conspiring to bring us back together, to give me another chance."

She tries not to laugh, feeling that would be mean. But a small snort escapes. "You believe in that kind of thing?"

"I don't know. Maybe?"

Beckett pulls the car up to the guard station outside the prison, and Castle falls silent as she identifies herself to the guard and gains entrance. She pulls into the parking lot, parks the car, and twists in her seat to look at him.

"Castle-"

But he puts up a hand to stop her. "Yesterday you asked why I'm going along with this pretending thing, and this is my answer, so let me finish."

She bites her lip again and nods.

"These days I have a balance," he says. "I do the party animal, ladies' man, bad-boy thing more than I would like, and less than Black Pawn would like, so it's a compromise. But back then I didn't have that. So when I was with that girl, the second time, it was so freeing -- she knew who I was, but she wasn't with me because of that. I didn't have to pretend to be someone else with her."

Beckett sucks in a sharp breath, feeling that cold lump form in her stomach again.

He lifts his head now and makes eye contact with her, a new edge in his expression that causes her breath to stutter in her throat.

"That's why I asked that girl for her number. Because I could be myself with her, and she was- I felt-" He cuts himself off, pauses, continues more carefully. "I need to know what happened. Which means I have to stick around you until you're ready to tell me. And you made it pretty clear that the only way for me to do that is if I pretend, play this new role, so I'm doing it."

He winds down at last, staring down at his knees again.

Beckett just looks at him for a long moment, breathing carefully, trying to understand everything he is and isn't saying. It's all skirting perilously close to things she doesn't think she can bear to hear, so she takes in a deep shaky breath and just says, "Um ... thanks for telling me."

"Yeah," he says, looking out the window again. "Let's do this."

* * *

The interview with the victim's ex-boyfriend is tense. Castle and Beckett are both already on edge from their conversation, and the guy's story of hopeless lost love doesn't help much. 

But he does give them a new piece of information: that the victim's husband had been having an affair. This twist occupies their conversation on the drive back, and another visit to the husband's best friend gets them the name of Sam's lover. Beckett sends Ryan and Esposito to pick her up.

Back at the precinct, after updating the murder board, she escapes into the restroom to collect herself. She sits in a stall, head in her hands, breathing slowly and trying to process everything that Castle said in the car earlier.

It all makes so much more sense now: the disconnect between the man she reads about in the papers, the man she slept with years ago, and the man she has gotten to know over the past few weeks, investigating murder cases together. She feels a twist of sadness for him, for how lonely it must have felt when he surfaced from several years of frenzied carousing to discover that he had no real friends, and even his wife didn't really love him.

At least he had Alexis. Somehow she knows that no matter what other roles he was playing, from the very beginning he was completely devoted to his daughter. Beckett briefly pictures him holding a tiny redheaded baby and her chest tightens all over again.

She tries to think about how he acted with her those two times -- especially the second time, in the hotel room -- but her mind keeps shying away from it. She knows it has a lot to do with the genuine emotions that he showed her at the time, while she was still trying so hard to stay in casual-sex mindset. Despite the efforts of the real Dr. Nelson years ago and the imaginary one in her head now, she's still terrified of all those feelings.

Eventually she emerges from the bathroom, not feeling very much calmer, but with her cop armor back on.

By that afternoon, they have Sam's former mistress in the box. She claims to have broken off the affair in order to go back to her own husband.

"Please," Castle scoffs. "No one ends an affair because they realize they're still in love. They end an affair because they're scared."

Beckett takes a slow, deep breath through her nose, keeping her face still. 

"Scared of taking it to the next level," he goes on, and she can feel him looking at her. "Scared of being found out. Scared of ruining their life."

Beckett wonders if she has become a window to Castle. Transparent, and easily breakable.

Then the woman admits that she suspected Sam had killed his wife, but she never went to the police. Beckett tries to hide her reaction, but some judgment must show on her face, because the woman gets defensive.

"He's dead. They're both dead. What's it matter any more?"

Beckett just sits back and stares at her.

She supposes that that's unassailable logic, to some people. It's true that there can be no justice obtained from proving that Sam murdered his wife; a dead man can't be punished. But to Beckett, it still matters. It matters more than just about anything else.

She spends hours in the precinct that evening, long after everyone else has gone, poring over the murder board, trying to find the loose thread that will lead her to the answers. She needs to find it. She knows in her heart that Sam killed his wife, but she needs to be able to prove it. She needs the proof both for herself, and for the sake of Sam and Melanie's two daughters. Those girls shouldn't have to live with the question.

When she lifts yet another cup of coffee to her lips and finds it cold, again, she knows she's had enough of this. She has to get out of here before the case drives her crazy.

Inevitably, she thinks about Castle and all the time they've spent discussing cases. He always seems to find a path to go down that isn't obvious. Maybe he can break her out of the circles her thoughts keep running around, and find her way to the truth about Sam and Melanie.

She takes a moment to look up Castle's address on the paperwork he signed when he started shadowing her. She doesn't have to go there, she tells herself. She can go home and call him. It's just good to know his address, for reference, just in case.

She gets into a taxi and blurts out Castle's address before she has a chance to second-guess herself.

* * *

Castle's building is intimidating from the moment she walks into the lobby: all marble and granite and leather, very wealthy but not ostentatious. She flashes her badge at the doorman to avoid having to explain herself.

In the elevator she almost loses her nerve, but reminds herself that it's for Melanie, and the two orphaned daughters.

She hears mysterious noises from the other side of the door as she rings the doorbell. Suddenly the door pops open and she's confronted by Castle, glittering all over with colored lights, shooting her with ... a laser gun?

"Hi?" she says tentatively. He blinks.

"Hi!" he exclaims, surprised. His daughter appears at his elbow, also flashing and blinking; and then his mother, wearing a facial mask. Such a ridiculous family. Beckett feels a strange pang as they invite her in.

Stepping over the threshold, she tries to hide her reaction to Castle's home. It's _enormous_ , and beautifully furnished. Modern, but classy; masculine, but homey; and somehow so him.

He ushers her into a study whose walls are covered with books. She makes a Batman joke, and is momentarily distracted by his electronic version of the murder board.

Castle can tell that something's going on with her. He looks concerned, and finally just asks right out, "Is something wrong?"

She huffs and frowns, and finally admits, "I can't find it. The answer."

So he talks her through it. Together they realize that Sam must have killed Melanie in their apartment, which leads to the question of how he got the body out. Castle and Beckett lean against his desk and try to work it out, without success.

Then Castle comes up with the idea of going to the crime scene and walking through the killer's actions and thought processes. Beckett can immediately see how it would work: just being in the place where the killer was, putting herself physically in his situation, could easily knock something loose -- something she wouldn't have seen otherwise.

Castle is looking at her, clearly wondering what she thinks of the suggestion. "Field trip?"

Beckett smiles a little. "That's actually a pretty good idea, Castle."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. We'll go first thing in the morning. Can't exactly be knocking on that guy's door at this hour."

"Right, right. Okay, in the morning."

There's a pause, then; a beat, where neither of them moves, but they both suddenly realize that they're sitting side-by-side on the edge of the desk, their hips not quite touching, but close. Very close. Enough to feel the heat.

Castle's eyes search her face and she feels her breathing speed up. "I should go," she says, very softly. He shakes his head.

"No, no. You should stay. Have a drink, we'll work out our strategy for tomorrow."

"Castle..." she breathes. "If I stay I'll do something stupid."

"Not stupid. Brave." His hand lifts briefly, as if to touch her, but he doesn't. A shiver runs down her spine.

"I don't think I'm that brave."

He lets out a short laugh, incredulous. "Are you kidding me? Beckett, in just the past few weeks I've watched you stare down knives, guns, sleazy teenagers-"

"Sleazy homicidal teenagers," she corrects, and he smiles again.

"Right, those too."

"But that's different. That's my job. Staring down danger..." she trails off, not even sure where she's going with that.

He's still looking at her with that deep gaze, potent, full of emotion. She can't tear her eyes away. She should leave right now, right now, before she ... but she's weak.

"Kate," he sighs, his breath caressing her cheek.

Heat prickles across her face, flushes her skin. She leans toward him, slowly. He watches with something like awe in his eyes, but doesn't move. It's all her. He's waiting for her.

She leans over the rest of the way and presses her lips to his.

Electricity crackles between them, surging the moment their mouths connect. Beckett twists her body toward Castle, sliding her hands up his shoulders, up his neck, her fingers weaving through his hair. His arms come up around her, pulling her closer still. Their open mouths slide together, tasting deeply. Beckett hears a moan and isn't sure what throat it came from.

The intensity of the kiss is dizzying and she clings to him, gasping into his mouth. His tongue strokes over her lips and slides against her tongue. His palms are hot on her back. He pulls her around, between his legs, her whole body pressed against his where he's leaning on the edge of the desk. Her breasts rub against his chest, his thighs against hers, and she knows she's the one moaning now, sparks rushing across her skin everywhere he touches.

But she pulls her mouth away, with difficulty, and gasps "No - Castle, no, stop," and he does. He removes his hands from her immediately, groaning softly, and she takes a small step backward, out of the curve of his body, fighting down a hard surge of disappointment.

"I'm sorry," he says hoarsely, running a hand through his hair, his eyes a little wild. His lips are shiny and reddened and she has to look away.

"Don't be," she murmurs, her face flushing. "I, I should go. I have to go."

"Beckett-"

"Tomorrow," she says quickly, "the field trip. The walk-through at Sam's old apartment. We'll meet there at nine."

Castle sighs, closes his eyes briefly, looks at her again, nods. "Okay. Okay, I'll see you there at nine."

"Goodnight," she says, and leaves as fast as she can.

She gets into a taxi and sits with her face in her hands, her heart pounding. Her whole body is still tingling.

"Hey, lady, you ain't gonna barf in my cab, are ya?"

"No," she snaps. "I'm fine, shut up."

The cabbie grumbles, but soon enough he's pulling up outside her door. She feels bad for biting his head off, so she tips high and escapes to the safety of her bedroom.

She has stripped off her work clothes, removed her makeup, brushed her teeth, put on her nightgown, but she can still feel the phantom touch of Castle's hands on her body. His sweet mouth on hers. She lies in bed shuddering with an awful mixture of arousal, shame, and despair.

Castle is so passionate, the way he looks at her. The way he has been talking these past few days, full of yearning. But it isn't for her; it's for that other girl, the one who doesn't exist. It isn't the Detective Beckett of today that he wants. She's too wounded. She's too weak. She shouldn't have kissed him, knowing that she isn't what he wants.

She has to strengthen her resolve, vow not to give in to her desires again. She wants him -- she is suddenly, painfully forced to admit -- but it won't work, because she isn't what he wants. So she needs to figure out how to let it go.


	12. Unfolding

The next morning they meet up at the apartment building. Castle brings coffee. "Sorry, they were out of bear claws."

"That's okay, I'll get something later." Beckett takes the coffee, carefully not letting their fingers touch, and murmurs, "Thanks."

"Any time."

They don't talk about what happened last night. They drink their coffee and go upstairs to knock on the door again.

The current tenant of Sam and Melanie's old apartment is not excited about letting them in, but he does. Beckett looks around, getting a sense of the layout. Living room, bedrooms, kitchen.

"All right," says Castle from the middle of the living room, "so you and I are married."

She blinks, mentally cursing the way her heart jumps at the words. "We are not married."

"Relax, it's just pretend," he says meaningfully, narrowing his eyes at her.

"I don't want to pretend" escapes her lips before she can stop it. Castle pauses to scrutinize her for a moment.

"All right, we're not married," he says, backpedaling, "but they were." And he takes her into the scene, walking her through it. She gets into it quickly, once he drops the dangerous ruse of putting himself and her into Sam's and Melanie's shoes.

It's a rush, working the story out with Castle; their minds are in sync, the pieces coming together. She has felt this kind of thrill when solving cases before, but never so thoroughly tied together with another person. It's both exciting and agonizing.

And the energy of it carries them through the day. The walk-through at the apartment leads them to a truck delivery, which leads them back to Sam's best friend. They get him into interrogation and he confesses that he helped Sam to put Melanie's body into the freezer and move it to the storage unit. So that's it: the proof they've been looking for.

The sense of relief that Beckett feels at having tied up that loose end is immeasurable. Maybe it's dumb, maybe it doesn't mean anything, but she needed to know, and now she does.

She's all set to go break the news to Melanie's parents when Castle notices another discrepancy in the case. They have to go back to the elderly woman whose name was on the freezer delivery, and this leads them to the revelation that Melanie's father, Ben, was poking into the case just before Sam died. This can only mean one thing. Ben figured it out, just like Castle and Beckett did, and took matters into his own hands.

They get into the car to go to White Plains again.

"You could just leave it like this," Castle says quietly as she merges onto the highway. "Sam's dead. The captain's happy. Those kids look pretty happy." It's an echo of what Sam's lover said yesterday: _What's it matter any more?_

Beckett blinks slowly, her eyes hot and moist. "That's the difference between a novel and the real world, Castle. A cop doesn't get to decide how the story ends."

He watches her for several long, silent minutes. It's still creepy, but somehow she can't bring herself to tell him to stop, this time.

"Beckett," he says at last. She jumps a little, startled after so much quiet.

"What?"

"I told you that I wanted to call ... that girl ... and take her out, convince her that I was interested in more than just sex."

She shivers, feeling an echo of last night's desire and despair. "What about it?"

"Well, I..." His voice drops half an octave and she shivers again, harder. "Just in case I wasn't clear, I was definitely also interested in the sex part."

What? Beckett shifts a little in the driver's seat, trying not to let the soft words squirm their way between her legs, but it's way too late for that. Suddenly the physical nearness of him feels very dangerous.

"Why are you telling me this?" she manages, struggling to keep her voice under control, to keep the car moving in a straight line.

"Because I'm dying to kiss you right now."

"Castle," she moans, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles start to ache. "You aren't really. It's not me."

He cocks his head curiously. "What do you mean, it's not you?"

"I'm not what you want. It's that other girl, the one who never really existed. And you can't have her, because she's not real." She bites her lip and blinks some more, hard.

Out of the corner of her eye she sees his mouth fall open in surprise. "Every time I think I've finally figured you out," he mutters after a moment.

She wants to ask what that's supposed to mean, but she can't. She can't listen to any more of him saying the things she wants to hear.

She pulls the car up to the curb outside the Davidsons' house and shifts into park.

Castle lifts his hand, slowly, and puts it on top of hers on the steering wheel. "Beckett..."

She shakes his hand off, her chest tightening. "Come on. Let's do this."

So they pick up Melanie's father, and bring him back to the city. The drive is silent: the older man glowering in the back seat, Castle creepy-staring at her again, which she can't exactly say anything about with their suspect listening to every word. So she tries to ignore it, and the pounding of her pulse, the way her hand still tingles where he touched it.

Back at the precinct, Ben Davidson as much as confesses to killing Sam, but he phrases it all in hypotheticals. And, as he points out himself, there's no evidence. They'll have to let him go.

Beckett decides that, after all, she can live with that. She doesn't believe in vigilante justice, but solving Sam's murder was never her primary goal anyway; solving Melanie's was, and she has accomplished that. She can set it all aside.

It's getting late. She's at her desk, finishing up the paperwork. Castle comes back from the break room, talking to Alexis on his cell; his face is soft with affection as he promises to make her pancakes in the morning. He's such a good dad.

"By the way," Beckett says as he takes his customary seat beside her desk, "it was my mother, not my father."

Castle straightens his spine at the words, fastens his gaze on her face. He gives her his full attention as she quietly tells the story of her mom's senseless, unsolved murder. She tells him about her dad's descent into alcoholism, about why she wears the watch. She pulls her mother's ring out from under her clothing for him to see. He takes it all in, his eyes full of sympathy.

"So," she says at last, clearing her throat carefully, "I guess your Nikki Heat has a backstory now, Castle."

He clears his throat also. "I don't know," he offers, "I did kinda like the 'raised by circus clowns' thing, but uh, I guess the heavy emotional angle could work too."

She can't help smiling a little, down toward her desk. "Well, don't bewilder your audience with substance on my account, Castle." She gets up and gathers her things. He's still watching her with those soft eyes.

"Until tomorrow, Detective."

She presses her lips together briefly in distaste. "You can't just say 'night'?"

"I'm a writer. 'Night' is boring. 'Until tomorrow' is more ... hopeful." His blue eyes follow her, saying things about hope that burn her skin.

"Yeah, well, I'm a cop," she replies, affecting a calm she doesn't feel. "Night."

"Night," he gives back, and sits there watching her go.

* * *

Beckett gets home and, on a whim, dials her father.

"Hi, Dad."

"Hey, Katie. What's up?"

"Just wanted to check in. Haven't talked to you in a bit. How's everything?"

"Fine, just fine. The usual, you know. How about you?"

She debates telling her dad about Castle, but decides this isn't the moment. Not when she's feeling so ... confused and wrung out. Soon, though, before the Nikki Heat thing makes its way into the newspapers.

"I had this case where a woman had been missing for five years. Two daughters and a husband left behind. She was dead the whole time, but they didn't know until now."

"Oh, Katie," Jim sighs. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. It turns out that the husband killed her."

"Ahh. And the kids?" he asks gently. She feels a surge of gratitude for her dad, who always seems to get it. She thinks about Ben Davidson and realizes with a jolt that he's not all that different from Jim Beckett, when you come down to it. A man who loves his daughter, and sometimes makes mistakes.

"The grandparents are raising them. I ... I think they'll be okay."

She and Jim chat for a while about not much at all, just reconnecting.

"I love you, Dad," she says when the conversation winds down.

"Love you too, Katie. Come over for brunch sometime soon?"

"Sounds good. Bye, Dad."

"Bye."

Barely has she hung up when the phone rings again. She almost thinks it's her dad calling back with one more silly anecdote from his law practice ... but then she looks at the screen and sees Castle's name. Oh shit.

"Castle, it's late," she says into the phone.

"It's not that late, Detective. And we need to talk, because you're wrong."

She squeezes her eyes shut, lets her head fall back against the back of the couch. She doesn't want to do this conversation right now. Or ever, possibly.

"About what?"

"You're that girl, Beckett."

A long pause. She doesn't know what to say, and he seems to be waiting for her to respond.

"I was confused," he says at last. "I misunderstood when you said that girl doesn't exist. I thought you just meant that she grew up, learned how to deal with her pain. But that's not what you meant, is it?"

"No," she agrees on a sigh. "She never existed in the first place."

"Okay, you were pretending to be something you weren't. But, Beckett, that's not the same thing. That girl existed, and she still does. She's you."

"No she's not," and she's close to tears so she doesn't say any more, can't let him hear her crying.

He seems to know, anyway. His tone becomes gentle.

"Beckett, that girl was who you could have been if your mother hadn't been killed. There's nothing wrong with that."

A tear escapes, and another. She doesn't want to hear this, but she can't help it.

"And listen, you were wrong about something else too." Now his voice becomes more forceful. "You said it isn't you that I want, but you're wrong. It's exactly you. That girl, all grown up, and without the act, with her pain closer to the surface, but using her pain to help others, turning it into strength. The strongest woman imaginable, tough and smart and making her grief a tool for justice. That's who you are."

She swallows, and swallows again. "You think you know me so well." Her voice is too shaky for comfort.

"Beckett. Kate." He's back to gentle again. "Tell me where you live. Your address. Tell me. So I can come over."

"I really don't think that's a good idea," she gasps. She can almost feel his breath on her, his mouth, his hands. No.

"To talk. Just to talk."

"We're talking right now," she points out unsteadily.

"To touch, then," he says, a little desperately. "I want to touch you, Kate."

Oh god, she wants that too, but it would be all wrong. "I'm hanging up."

"No! No, don't. I'll behave, I promise. Just tell me what to say."

"What does that mean? You're the writer. I'm not good with words, Castle."

"Tell me what to say," he says again, "to convince you that I'm- Come to dinner with me," he interrupts himself. "Have dinner with me, tomorrow."

"No." She curls into herself on the sofa, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

"What are you afraid of now, Beckett?"

She's silent, letting the question sink under her skin. What is she afraid of?

"Beckett?"

"I can't answer that," she manages.

"You haven't told me the whole story," he says. It's not a question.

"No," she confirms. She hasn't told him about the books, about how she found him, why she came that day to get the book signed. The thought of telling him that part still makes her cheeks heat up with embarrassment, but she knows she'll have to do it eventually.

"I want it, Beckett. The rest of the story. But I won't push."

"Like you haven't been pushing all along?" she snorts, a bit of humor coming through the fog of painful emotion. She hears him chuckle softly.

"Well, I did say I could be a jackass sometimes."

"Castle," she says, more firmly now, getting her voice back under control.

"Yes?"

"It's Friday."

"It is that, Detective. And?"

She takes a deep breath, lets it out. "Don't call me this weekend. I'll see you at the precinct on Monday unless there's a case." She needs some space, some breathing room. She's suffocating.

A brief pause. "Okay," he agrees at last. "I'll see you on Monday, then."

"Goodnight, Castle."

* * *

On Saturday, Beckett invites Lanie over to her place for cheese and crackers and wine, and tells her the whole story. Well, most of the story; she leaves out the part about her mother and the books. 

Lanie is appropriately astonished. "You are kidding me. You made this up," she says, more than once.

"Lanie, I swear, it's the truth. I'd say you should ask him, but...." she trails off, momentarily distracted by imagining how that conversation might go. Despite herself, she grins a little at the thought.

"Girl...." Beckett blinks and finds Lanie studying her through narrowed eyes. "He's right, you know. The way you were back then, if you leave out the part where you were using the sex to escape your feelings, that could have been who you were if your mom hadn't died. Carefree, self-confident. Just a young woman enjoying life."

"I don't know, Lane." She tries to think about it, has been trying to think about it all day but it's too tender a subject still. "I guess maybe."

"I get it, though." Her friend smiles sympathetically. "Any positive or pleasant emotion at all, you felt like you were betraying her. You told me that yourself, way back. Remember?"

Beckett does. It was one of the realizations that came out of her sessions with Dr. Nelson -- followed by a lengthy period of therapy work to help her accept the idea of being happy without guilt. Her mom wouldn't have wanted her to spend the rest of her life in mourning, so she hasn't. Mostly.

"What _are_ you afraid of, anyway?" Lanie prompts. "The guy asked you out to dinner. So you go to dinner with him, what's the worst that could happen?"

Beckett frowns at her friend. "The worst that could happen? Um, paparazzi spot us and I end up on page six?"

Lanie shakes her head. "Not such a big deal. That stuff blows over fast. Try again."

"One of us chokes on the food and the other one has to do the Heimlich maneuver?"

That gets a grin and chuckle out of Lanie. "Okay, that would be awkward, but what a great story to tell the grandchildren."

"Oh my god, Lanie, grandchildren?" Now they're both grinning, and she's blushing.

"Don't change the subject. What else ya got?"

"Okay." Beckett stops smiling, speaks quietly, staring down at her hands. "What if it turns out that he actually is a complete jerk and has been lying this whole time?"

Lanie shrugs. "So, you wasted an evening and had some good food. You'd survive." She looks shrewdly at her friend. "On the other hand, what if it turns out that he's really a super nice guy, you have a good time at dinner, and then you go back to his place and have an even better time? I know it was a while ago, but the sex was good, right?"

Beckett blushes again, deeply. "Um, yeah. Better than good." She squirms a little while Lanie laughs.

"Girl, seems to me the worst that could happen from going out to dinner with Castle is you'd be forced to actually enjoy yourself. And maybe experience some emotions that you aren't used to feeling."

"Shut up," Beckett mumbles, refilling her wine glass.

"And hey, the other side of the coin -- what if he's the love of your life?"

"Seriously?" She fidgets uncomfortably. "That's a bit extreme, Lanie."

"Yeah, I know. But Kate, it's just dinner." Lanie reaches over and puts her hand on her friend's shoulder.

"I know." She sighs. "And you're right, the worst that could happen is probably not all that bad. I just ... easier said than done."

Lanie nods wisely. "True that. But when he asks again -- and I'm guessing he will -- give yourself a break and say yes, okay? It might be worth the risk."


	13. Entanglements

Beckett spends most of Sunday in a cleaning frenzy, trying to avoid too much thinking. She scrubs, dusts, vacuums, and polishes almost every item and surface in her apartment while listening to talk radio to keep her mind occupied.

After taking a break for lunch she allows herself a few minutes to lie down on the couch and, without intending to, falls asleep. Her dreams are hazy and humid, full of Castle and bare skin and warm lips. She wakes up feeling disoriented, fuzzy-headed, and aroused.

She throws herself full-bore into the cleaning for the rest of the afternoon, eats a hasty dinner of reheated leftovers, takes a cool shower, and goes to bed early.

But that doesn't work. Despite all the exertion of the cleaning, she's wide awake. She lies in bed and finally makes herself think about the things that Castle and Lanie said.

What if they are right? What if she has been going about it all wrong, trying to protect herself by pretending that the things she did back then were an act -- by pretending that 'that girl' was someone else? Abruptly she understands why Castle sees it differently. The self-assurance and confidence that Kate projected back then isn't really so different from the way Detective Beckett holds herself nowadays -- at least in public, when she's on the job.

Was she faking it, back then, or just reaching for something she saw in a possible future -- an inner strength she aspired to?

Maybe she _is_ that girl, after all. Grown up, still full of pain, but in control. Mostly.

* * *

Monday morning, a call comes in with a new murder case. Beckett finds herself in an abandoned warehouse, looking at a dead African-American man lying on a bright red sheet with a candle and a bowl of blood.

Castle is there when she arrives, but he seems distracted. He greets her mechanically and stands around looking glazed while Esposito gives her the run-down.

"Hello?" she tries, studying Castle curiously. He snaps out of it, focuses on her.

"Hmm?"

"You okay?"

He frowns. "I woke up in bed with my ex-wife this morning."

Ryan and Esposito look up from their squatting positions beside the corpse. Beckett's eyebrows nearly reach her hairline.

"My first ex-wife," he clarifies, "Meredith, Alexis's mom. She showed up at the loft and decided to crawl into bed with me. It's, uh, kind of her signature move."

Beckett swallows down a mouthful of very unwelcome jealousy, which she refuses to so much as acknowledge, let alone analyze.

"You have a very interesting sex life," Ryan comments. Castle blanches.

"Oh, no no no, I didn't have sex with her. I mean, not for lack of trying on her part." He shudders theatrically. "But the point is, she's thinking about moving back to New York. Do you know what that would mean to me? That would be a very special brand of hell." He babbles on about Twinkies, which Beckett ignores, busily refusing to acknowledge her reactions.

"Castle!" she snaps. "Crime scene, dead body. A little respect here."

"I don't think he can hear me, but fine. Check in his mouth."

Somewhat to Beckett's surprise, once Castle manages to focus on something other than his ex-wife problem, he comes out with some useful information about the occult ritual apparently being used on their murder victim. Shortly, Beckett finds herself at Castle's loft again, looking at the piles of books he used as research for one of his previous novels. Privately, she thinks that _Unholy Storm_ was not one of his better efforts, but she's certainly not about to tell him that.

But all he seems to want to do is read from his book, so she rolls her eyes and gets up to leave.

"No, look, I'm just kidding," he says, leaping up from his desk. "I do have another source."

She shakes her head. "And you call your ex-wife a deep-fried Twinkie?"

He follows her out into the living room, arguing his case for how annoying his ex is. She tries not to hear it.

"...She's completely crazy!" he finishes, agitated.

"And you married her," Beckett points out, still irritated.

"Let me tell you something about crazy people," Castle shoots back, "the sex is unbelievable."

"Oh, well then why didn't you sleep with her this morning?"

Castle stops short, blinking, suddenly quiet. "You know why."

Beckett shivers a little, and then a little more when he steps closer to her. "It's none of my business," she says, her throat suddenly tight. "You can do what you want."

"I know that. And what I want is not Meredith." His eyes are dark, holding hers transfixed. Her breathing speeds up. He takes another step toward her.

"Beckett..."

His hand comes up toward her cheek. She stands still, unable to move, almost unable to breathe.

The doorbell rings and they both jump.

It's Castle's other source, a restaurateur and vodun practitioner who tells them what the symbols found on and around the body mean. While they're talking with her, and eating her food, Ryan calls with the news that there's another body.

So Beckett and Castle go to the second crime scene and then spend the rest of the morning chasing down leads, talking about nothing except the case. Having failed to find a connection between their two victims -- other than the manner and staging of death -- they're back at the precinct with the boys, trying to figure it out, when a shrill voice rings out across the bullpen.

"No, I'm not going to wait downstairs. Do you have any idea who pays your salary?"

Castle winces deeply, closes his eyes as if in pain.

"Deep-fried Twinkie?" Esposito guesses.

"Afraid so."

The ex-wife comes sweeping in, all melodrama and shopping bags, with a mortified-looking Alexis at her shoulder. Beckett can't help noticing the similarities with Castle's mother: a redheaded diva who knows how to make an entrance. Hmm.

"You know, I was his inspiration once," the woman trills, after Castle introduces the detectives.

"Were you now?" Beckett asks, suppressing another stab of unwanted jealousy.

"Still am from time to time, right, kitten?"

"Kitten?" Oh, now that's good. Beckett is definitely going to use that one. She smirks at him, hears the boys snickering behind his back. Castle just sighs.

"I had this dream once," he comments, "only I was naked and far less embarrassed."

Meredith is nattering on, and Beckett catches Castle and his daughter communicating in gestures and silently mouthed words behind her back. 

Then, wholly unexpectedly, the former Mrs. Castle gives them the next piece of the puzzle. The second victim's purse was a knockoff, which is a big clue. Beckett and the detectives are suddenly in motion. Castle disappears, presumably to take his women home. 

By the time they get the sketch of their suspect, it's past dinner time, so Beckett sends Ryan and Esposito home, with plans to meet up at Canal Street the next morning.

She goes home and reluctantly opens a new conversation with the therapist in her head.

 _I don't care if he's sleeping with his ex-wife,_ she thinks defensively. Needless to say, imaginary Dr. Nelson is not impressed.

 _Being untruthful with yourself isn't healthy, Kate,_ she chides. _After all the things he has said lately, the interest he has been expressing in you, it's natural to feel hurt when he shows interest in another woman._

But Beckett has to admit that he hasn't really shown anything toward Meredith except annoyance and resignation. And, to be fair, he probably feels obligated to put up with her for Alexis's sake.

 _It's not like I have any kind of claim on him,_ she thinks. _I don't even want that._

 _Don't you?_ Dr. Nelson would undoubtedly say, narrowing her eyes in that piercing way. Beckett sighs in frustration and gives up.

* * *

The next morning, Castle shows up at the precinct while Beckett is obtaining a warrant, so they go to Canal Street together and meet up with the boys. He's silent in the car, busy on his phone, texting and emailing. He says nothing about his ex-wife or anything else, and she doesn't ask.

The shop they're looking for has been trashed, and Beckett realizes that the knockoff handbags may have been used for smuggling.

Suddenly Castle walks out the door and across the street, waving his arms at a TV in the window of an electronics store. Beckett exchanges eye-rolls with the boys and goes after him.

"Castle! Are you having a breakdown?"

"Not a breakdown, a breakthrough," he replies cheerily. "And I really am ruggedly handsome, aren't I?" 

Beckett sighs in exasperation, but he's right. About the video camera, that is. Okay, about the handsome part too, but she isn't telling him that.

In the electronics store, when Castle makes a comment about her blood sugar, she snaps "Zip it, kitten," and feels gratified to see him grimace.

She's a little horrified, though, to catch herself about to say something like _If my blood sugar is low it's because you forgot to bring me a bear claw_. What? Since when is it Castle's responsibility to feed her breakfast? What is she assuming? The almost-slip has her blushing and biting her lip all the way back to the precinct.

They track down the identity of their suspect and make their way to a warehouse where he supposedly does business. Beckett is putting on her protective vest when Castle somehow produces a vest of his own, identical to theirs, except that it says WRITER across the front instead of POLICE. Seriously? Is he kidding with this shit? She grabs it away from him and throws it back into the car.

"Stay here, Castle, and don't do anything," she instructs. He'll listen this time, won't he? He's heard how dangerous this guy is.

Of course he doesn't listen. Not only does he put on his vest and follow them into the warehouse, but his phone rings, loudly, while they're trying to enter the building stealthily. He goes back outside, and then lets the suspects get away. Beckett can't believe it.

"What do you mean, you didn't get the plate?" He can't even give them a useful description of the vehicle, for heaven's sake.

"I'm usually really good with the detailed stuff," he protests. "I just, I got distracted." 

Beckett is quite well aware of what distracted him. The glamorous redheaded twinkie, that's what. She rolls her eyes extravagantly and stalks back into the building.

At least they do find the missing camera inside the warehouse. Beckett gives Castle another death glare just on general principle.

The video footage on the camera leads them to a yoga studio, and thence to the apartment of the woman who bought the smugglers' purse. Beckett bangs on the door urgently, fearing that their suspect might already be inside, doing who-knows-what to the hapless yoga student.

"Can I kick it down?" Castle asks eagerly.

"Sorry, kitten." She doesn't even spare a moment to enjoy the way he throws up his hands at the nickname. The woman opens the door and they're inside, finding the purse, finding the forged passport.

Beckett is on her phone calling for backup when everything goes crazy. Castle grabs her and slams her to the floor, just as the gunshots ring out from the man standing in the doorway. For a single breathtaking instant she's sprawled on top of Castle on the floor, his body solid and warm underneath her as glass shards rain down around them. Her whole body is on high alert. 

The moment passes. She pulls out her gun and returns fire.

A few harrowing minutes later, huddled behind the cover of the kitchen island, she watches in bemusement as Castle takes out a bottle of champagne and begins opening it.

"I'll set the pick, you take him down."

She can hardly believe his ridiculous idea, but it works. They move in tandem as if they've executed this trick a hundred times. Castle draws the suspect's attention by popping the cork, and Beckett takes him out with her last two bullets. Success. 

The action floods her body with endorphins, a rush of excitement very similar to the one she has felt when working out theories with Castle. She can tell that he feels it too, by the unsteady tilt to his body as he lifts the bottle to his mouth and takes a swig. Beckett, on the other hand, can't let her guard down yet; she's kneeling on the suspect, cuffing him, alert for more signs of trouble even while she can't help grinning a little at the thrill of the hunt and the perfectly synchronized takedown.

After the chaos has died down and the EMTs have taken their suspect away on a stretcher, Beckett finds Castle in the hallway, enjoying some more of the champagne -- in a glass this time.

"You okay, Castle?"

"My first gun battle," he says, almost proudly. 

"Your _last_ gun battle," she adds, wishing she could believe it.

"Don't be so pessimistic," he grins. "I think I handled myself pretty well."

"Yeah," she shrugs, deliberately blasé, "you probably saved my life."

"Probably? I definitely saved your life. And you know what that means, don't you?"

She hears a familiar note in his voice -- the low, husky note that warms her skin and quickens her pulse. "It means you owe me," he rumbles.

"Owe you what?" she manages, her voice coming out full of air.

"Whatever I want." He takes a step closer. "And you know exactly what I want, don't you?" The air is suddenly thick; her lungs struggle to pull it in. "You know what I really ... really want you to do?" he goes on, stepping even closer. She can feel the heat of his body where it just barely isn't touching hers. She can smell his cologne and feel his breath riffling her hair when he brings his mouth right up next to her ear. Goosebumps rush across her skin like wildfire.

"Never ... _ever_ ... call me kitten."

He slides on past her, never having touched her at all, and walks away.

She leans against the wall, her whole body thrumming.

* * *

By the time Beckett collects herself and leaves the crime scene, Castle is gone. She's painfully torn between disappointment and relief.

She goes back to the precinct to start writing her report. A few desks over, Esposito is also working on his. Beckett catches him glancing at her several times, and finally turns away from her computer to ask, "What?"

"What?" Esposito repeats, looking just a hair too innocent.

"Something on your mind, Javier?"

He looks from side to side, twitchy, and eventually says "So I guess it turns out Castle isn't completely useless in a fight, huh?"

Beckett leans back in her chair and studies the junior detective. "What's your point?"

"Nothin'," he evades, "just, uh, maybe we might wanna think about taking him to the shooting range and teaching him how to use a gun."

"You planning to take a civilian into combat sometime soon?" 

"No," Esposito denies, "but you weren't planning to take him into a gunfight today either, were you?"

Beckett scowls. It's true, of course, but come on.

Esposito's phone rings, so the conversation is over, but she sits and watches him for a moment. There's something else bothering Javier, something he isn't talking about yet. She's almost sure of it. 

Well, he'll speak up when he's ready, she supposes.

She turns back to her computer, but then her own desk phone rings.

"Beckett."

"Hey, it's me."

"Castle? You called my desk, not my cell?"

"Yeah," he says, "playing a hunch. I figured you were still at work."

"And I figured you were home with all of your redheads. What's up?"

"Beckett," he says a little uncertainly, "will you come to dinner with me? Tonight? Right now?"

She takes a quick breath, her stomach fluttering. Glances hastily around the room, as if anyone looking would be able to read the entire story on her face. She thinks about what Lanie said the other day. "Okay."

"O-Okay?" Castle sounds surprised. "Really?"

"Really. Where are you, Castle?" She realizes she can hear street noises in the background. "Aren't you at home?"

"No, I'm here, outside the precinct. I thought, uh, you could come out and meet me."

"Oh." She understands a whole collection of meanings from this. He doesn't want to come up to her desk, have everyone see them leaving together. He assumed she'd be here. He came to pick her up, without asking first....

"I'm not dressed for dinner, though, Castle. I mean, I'm just-"

"Your work clothes are fine. No problem," he says quickly. "We don't have to go anywhere too formal. I have the perfect place in mind. I think you'll like it." He's speaking too fast, tripping over himself, and she realizes with a start that he's nervous. He's like a teenage boy on his first date, and the thought makes her gut clench with that now-familiar mix of anticipation and apprehension. Hell, she's feeling a bit adolescent herself.

"Okay," she says, forcing her voice to remain steady. "I'll be down in a minute."


	14. Stepping Out

Beckett takes her time shutting down her computer, using the bathroom, fixing her hair and makeup. Finally she has to admit that it's just pure blatant procrastination at this point, so she grabs her jacket and purse, calls goodnight to Esposito and Ryan, and steps into the elevator.

Castle has already hailed a cab and is standing in its open door, watching for her. When she comes over, he smiles tentatively and ushers her inside before hurrying around to get in the other door. The cabbie shifts into gear and starts driving as soon as they're both in.

"I'm glad I caught you before you went home," Castle offers diffidently. She gives him a little smile.

"I'm surprised you managed to escape the clutches of your family."

"Oh, well." He ducks his head, sheepish. "I managed to get rid of Meredith, so it's back to business as usual at the loft."

"'Get rid of'? That sounds ominous," Beckett teases lightly. "What, did you call up your guy in the mafia and have her bumped off?"

"That is such a stereotype," he huffs, pretending to be offended. "They don't say 'bump off' any more, Beckett, geez. It's whack, or burn."

"My bad," she laughs. "So, you had your ex-wife whacked?"

"I did nothing of the sort." He gives an innocent look. "I simply pulled a few strings and got her a juicy role in an indie movie. Filming in Hollywood, starting immediately."

"Oh." Beckett raises her eyebrows. "Well, that's ... effective. How did Alexis take it?"

"Honestly, she's relieved. Meredith is best taken in small doses." He looks at her seriously. "I would never intentionally prevent Alexis from spending time with her mother, you know. I know that bond is...is...."

She looks down. "Castle, it's okay. You don't have to walk on eggshells whenever the subject of a mother comes up."

"Well, I wouldn't want to, um..." he mumbles.

"I'm sorry that Alexis doesn't have the kind of relationship with her mother that ... Well, she's lucky to have you."

"I'm lucky to have her," he corrects, smiling softly to himself. She can't help smiling back a little.

"Here ya go," the cabbie announces, pulling over to the curb outside a small Italian restaurant. Castle is immediately in motion, throwing some cash at the driver, hurrying around to open Beckett's door and usher her out. She steps onto the sidewalk, feels him put a courteous hand on her elbow, looks up at the restaurant's awning, and feels her stomach clench, hard, with a mixture of emotions -- excitement, trepidation, amazement. They're really doing this.

She's on a date with Rick Castle.

* * *

Castle is the perfect gentleman, ushering Beckett into the restaurant, helping her off with her coat, holding her chair for her. The place is small, but not too intimate; there are families with children here, as well as couples, and groups of elderly ladies gossiping over spaghetti. The lighting and decor are just slightly more friendly than romantic. Beckett suspects that Castle chose very carefully.

"Would you like some wine?" he asks, and offers her the wine menu, but she defers and lets him choose. After he has done that, and they've ordered appetizers, he clears his throat and regards her with a little smile.

"What?" she asks, self-conscious.

"You were pretty awesome today," he says avidly, "the way you kept your cool when Baylor was shooting at us. You hardly looked ruffled at all."

"You handled yourself pretty well too," she deflects, but he shakes his head.

"Nah, I was just following your lead, Beckett. If you'd shown the slightest hint of nerves, I would have been a gibbering mess." He leans forward a little. "Do they teach that stuff at the police academy?"

"Oh, well, there are exercises designed to work on those skills. Staying calm in a crisis, situation assessment, and so forth." She pauses to taste the wine. Not surprisingly, his selection is just perfect. "But to some extent it's not really the kind of thing that can be taught. You just have to have it, or develop it with real-world experience."

Castle is nodding along in agreement. "That's what I thought. But you make it look easy."

She ducks her head, not quite sure how to handle this praise. "Thanks."

"Oh," he exclaims, "but I wasn't going to talk about work, sorry."

She smiles a little. "That's okay. So what should we talk about, then?"

"Mm ... movies? There's a new Star Trek movie coming out next month. It's getting good advance press."

Beckett makes a face. "Yeah, but with a whole new cast? I mean, how can you have Kirk and Spock without Shatner and Nimoy?"

Castle's face lights up. "I know! It feels so wrong. We should go just to heckle." He's so excited to discover that Beckett knows Star Trek, he doesn't even seem to realize that he has asked her out to the movies ... sort of. "Have you heard my Shatner impersonation? 'Scotty! Damn it, man, I need ... more ... power to the forward engines!'"

Beckett bursts out laughing, covering her mouth with one hand. "That's impressive, Castle. You are your mother's son."

They pass a pleasant time talking about movies and their favorite childhood TV shows, which leads to childhood vacation memories and other topics. Food arrives and Beckett hardly notices what she's eating as the conversation flows easily.

Midway through the meal she gets up the courage to ask, "So, tell me about your second wife."

"Gina?" He looks up from refilling his wine glass. "Well, you met her at the book release party."

"Oh." She frowns a little, remembering the blonde who tried to prevent her from removing Castle from the party. "I thought she was your publisher."

"Yeah, she works for Black Pawn. That's how we met, when they assigned her as my editor and handler. I used to try to get out of going to events by saying I didn't have a date, so Gina would go with me. She mostly just did it to win brownie points with her bosses, show them that she could make me behave."

Beckett quirks a grin at that. "But she couldn't, really?"

"Well, I was pretty rude to her, I guess," he admits. "One night I got fed up and felt like being a jackass, so I just said 'hey, you've come to so many of these things with me but you never put out.' I figured she would punch me and then refuse to be my fake date any more." He shakes his head sheepishly. "Instead she dragged me straight back to her place and, uh, long story short, a few months later we were married." 

"Romantic," Beckett comments into her wine glass. She isn't sure whether to be amused or horrified by this story.

"Well..." He looks down at his plate. "I guess neither of us was under any illusions of being madly in love or anything. We were just, sort of, convenient to each other. For a while."

"That ... doesn't really sound like your style," she says tentatively.

"Yeah, well, we all make mistakes." He looks up again and meets her eyes. "Speaking of which, I'm sorry that I upset you on the phone the other night."

Now it's her turn to look away. "It's okay."

"Is it?"

She looks over at him again and feels an odd mixture of affection and embarrassment. It's not his fault she reacted so badly when he was just trying to be honest and to understand. "Yeah. It is."

"What are you pretending to be tonight, Beckett?" he asks, carefully casual, his hands busy with knife and fork.

Oh. "Fearless?" she offers, trying for lighthearted, but it doesn't quite come out that way.

Castle nods slowly, as if it's what he expected. "Me too."

She contemplates that, studying him for a moment while she takes another bite of her gnocchi. Castle is certainly showing restraint tonight, a quieter version of himself that she hasn't seen much of so far. She wonders why.

"Doing a pretty good job of it," she says, successfully achieving a light tone this time. "Almost as good as your Shatner."

He takes the hint and moves the conversation back to safer topics.

When they've finished eating, Castle asks whether she wants dessert and coffee, and she accepts. Mostly she's stalling, because nervousness has begun to creep over her as the end of the meal approaches. What happens next?

The tiramisu is incredible, and she eats it in small bites, savoring it. Midway through her slice she looks up and catches Castle staring at her mouth as she's sliding the fork between her lips. His eyes are dark and she feels her pulse quicken. Slowly she runs her tongue around her lips, clearing the lingering bits of chocolate and cream, and watches him shift uneasily in his seat. It's more than a little exciting to see the effect she's having on him.

But abruptly she feels guilty for teasing, so she sips her coffee and finishes the dessert quickly. Castle doesn't comment, but buries himself in his own coffee.

Finally the moment comes when they can no longer pretend they're still eating. Beckett excuses herself and goes to the ladies' room, where she stares into the mirror and silently asks herself, _What do you want? What are you afraid of?_

When she comes out, Castle has taken care of the check and is waiting with her coat.

They emerge onto the sidewalk and, by mutual unspoken agreement, begin walking side-by-side. The evening air is pleasant, the lights of the city sparkling.

Beckett is tingling, twitchy with nerves, with not knowing what Castle's plan is next. Does he want ... more than dinner? Will he invite her to his home? Is he going to try to start something? Is _she_ going to try to start something? What does she want? What does he want? Her breath comes more quickly as she tries to sort out all the questions.

"We can get you a cab down at the corner, and then I'll just walk home," he says, interrupting her busy thoughts. "It's not far, and it's a nice night." She blinks, looks sideways at him.

"Oh? You don't want to..." she trails off, not sure how bold she can be with the end of that sentence.

"You didn't want me to know your address," he explains calmly. In a flash of insight she understands it all. _To convince her that I was interested in more than just sex,_ he said. Oh. So that's what this is.

She stops walking and turns to face him. "Castle...."

He stops also, turns and looks at her, and whatever he sees in her expression brings him surging forward, closing the short distance between them in a heartbeat. His hands cup her face and he kisses her softly, sweetly. He smells like aftershave and coffee, delicious. She melts into his mouth and then he's pulling back from her, putting up his arm to signal for a taxi.

"Thanks for joining me tonight, Beckett," he says, low-voiced, smooth. She blinks, takes a couple of quick breaths, and recovers her cool.

"This is how you write a story, Castle? End every chapter on a cliffhanger. Leave the audience wanting more."

His face lights up with a pleased grin. "You really do read my books!"

She laughs a little, but she can't take her eyes off his lips. She wants to kiss him again, and more.

A taxi glides up beside them and Castle opens the door for her.

"I'll see you at the precinct tomorrow."

She lets her shoulder brush his as she steps past him and into the cab. "Night, Castle."

"Until tomorrow, Beckett."

He closes the cab door and walks away.

* * *

Beckett floats home on a cloud of endorphins: the wine and the coffee are battling inside her, and her body is buzzing. She thinks about calling Lanie, but isn't ready yet for the full debriefing and the I-told-you-so's. Nor for Lanie saying _And you're already home, this early, alone? What is wrong with you?_

She draws a bath and lets the hot water envelop her while she thinks about the long, strange day.

How has she come so fast from hating Castle, being scared and furious about having him around her all day, to going out to dinner and flirting and kissing? Coming home giddy like a schoolgirl with a crush?

When she stops and thinks about it, she's still terrified of the feelings he expresses to her, the feelings he evokes in her. But in the moment, when she's around him, she doesn't feel as scared any more. She wonders what that means.

It comes into her mind that she could tell Castle he doesn't need to prove anything to her. He saved her life today, and then he took her to dinner, and behaved more like an adult than she has perhaps ever seen him. And besides, he has been following her around for weeks now, working on cases. He wouldn't be doing all of this if his only goal were to get into her pants, would he? Even the lure of the story doesn't explain the way he has been acting, the things he has said and revealed to her.

She remembers him saying _I want to touch you_ over the phone the other day, and a delicious shiver runs through her in the heat of the bath. If she told him that he has nothing to prove ... she could let him touch her. She closes her eyes and allows herself a long moment of imagining his hands on her body, his kisses, that low husky voice he uses to turn her to liquid. Her hand slides under the water and she teases herself lightly.

But then she stops, thinking, _what next?_ If she falls into bed with Castle, what then? Are they in a relationship? The mere thought makes her gut clench with apprehension.

She doesn't have time for a relationship. She doesn't _want_ a relationship. Does she?

_What do you want? What are you afraid of?_

* * *

First thing the next morning Beckett is back at her desk, doing paperwork. Castle strolls in a while later with coffee, bear claw, and a copy of the Ledger. Their eyes are cool when they look at each other, betraying nothing to any outside observer.

"Morning," she says offhandedly.

"Good morning. Did you see we made the paper?"

Beckett sips her coffee while reading the article, which amounts to three paragraphs, buried on a back page, about a gun battle in which a police detective (unnamed) and civilian assistant (also unnamed) subdued a wanted crimelord.

"Not exactly what I had in mind for my fifteen minutes of fame," she comments, handing the paper back to Castle.

"Never fear, you'll get at least fourteen more minutes when _Heat Wave_ comes out."

"That's your title?" asks Ryan, coming over to kibbitz. " _Heat Wave_ , featuring Nikki Heat?" Beckett wonders whether there's any point in asking how Ryan knows the fictional detective's name.

"Well, the story takes place in the summer, in the middle of a period of unusually warm weather," Castle says, "so, yeah."

"Anyway, there's nothing going on here," Beckett tells him, "unless you'd like to write up your incident report on yesterday's events."

"I already gave my statement to the responding officer," he protests, and then proceeds to sit next to her desk playing Angry Birds on his phone for the next hour. Beckett focuses on her paperwork and tries to ignore the looming complication next to her.

Finally looking up from his game, Castle notices that Beckett has finished her coffee and pastry. Without a word, he goes to the break room and makes her another cup. He comes back to her desk, slides the coffee into reach, sits back down, and resumes his game. Absorbed in her work, she hardly even notices, and drinks half the coffee without pausing to wonder where it came from.

A little while later Castle straightens up, puts his phone away in his pocket, and asks, "So, still no murder?"

Beckett gives him a sour look. "You've been sitting right here. Have you heard my phone ring?"

"Okay, well," he gets quickly to his feet, "I'll be back in a little while. Try not to let anything really exciting happen."

"Where's he off to?" Esposito asks as Castle hurries out. 

Beckett shrugs. "How should I know?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to all my wonderful readers! I hope you are still enjoying this ride, which has gotten much longer than I originally envisioned. My current outline suggests that the story will probably stretch to somewhere around 22 chapters, but don't quote me on that. ;)
> 
> Please do feel free to leave a comment and let me know what you think at any time!


	15. The Tempest

Castle is back in less than half an hour, looking disgruntled. "What? Nothing going on here either?"

"What's up with you?" Ryan asks.

Castle scowls. "Last week Lanie said I could observe an autopsy sometime, so I went to the morgue, but apparently it's her day off. The guy who was there refused to even let me in. What a sourpuss."

Beckett, Ryan, and Esposito exchange a glance. "Perlmutter," they all say in unison.

"I don't think he liked me very much."

Ryan pats him on the shoulder. "Don't take it personally, Castle. Perlmutter doesn't like anyone."

"Lanie will be back on tomorrow," Beckett offers. "Meanwhile, you might as well go home. There's nothing happening here, and I'm tired of the Angry Birds music."

"I could turn it down." But he looks at his watch and announces, "Actually, it's lunchtime. Who's coming?"

"I gotta finish this up," Esposito says. "Bring me back a sandwich or something, would ya?"

"Sure."

So Beckett, Ryan, and Castle take the elevator down and walk toward the sandwich shop a few blocks away. Barely are they out the door of the precinct before Ryan gets a call on his cell and peels off, motioning them to go on without him.

"Hey, can I ask you something?" Castle says as he and Beckett continue along the sidewalk. Just the mere presence of him at her elbow has her a little flushed and flustered.

"Since when do you ask permission to ask questions?" she teases, but he's looking serious.

"It's about your mother's case."

She stops walking, a chill seeping into her limbs.

"Have you ever thought about ... reopening it?" he asks, and the air leaves her lungs entirely for a moment.

"What are you doing?" she says unsteadily.

"Nothing. I just thought if we worked togeth-"

"No!" she interjects, as firm and commanding a tone as she can manage when it feels like the very ground under her feet is about to fail her.

He rocks back a little on his heels, gives a tiny frown. "I have resources."

"Castle, you touch my mom's case, and you and I are done. Do you understand?" And she means it. _Done._ In every sense.

"Okay," he says, still frowning, looking surprised. 

Satisfied that he grasps how serious she is, she resumes walking toward the sandwich shop. After a moment, Castle follows, falling into step with her again.

"Why don't you want to investigate it?"

She sighs harshly and stops to face him again, summoning a metaphor that's near to her heart. "Same reason a recovering alcoholic doesn't drink." He raises his eyebrows, surprised. "You don't think I haven't been down there, you don't think I haven't memorized every line in that file?" 

With an effort, she meets his eyes, willing the full strength of her determination to come through in her face and voice. "My first three years on the force, I spent every off-duty moment looking for something someone missed. It took me a year of therapy to realize, if I didn't let it go, it was gonna destroy me."

Castle looks stricken, and she wonders uneasily what he has been expecting, or planning.

"And so I let it go," she finishes, pointedly.

"I'm sorry," he says, heartfelt. "I didn't know."

"Yeah, well now you do."

They proceed to the sandwich shop in silence, buy lunches for themselves and the boys, and head back to the precinct. The air is still a little tense between them, but Ryan breaks into their mood with a dumb joke, and things ease up. The four of them eat together in the break room, chatting and laughing together mostly comfortably.

A little later, Beckett is back at her desk getting ready to resume her paperwork, but Castle says quietly, "Beckett, can we talk?"

She puts down her pen and turns her chair to face him, lifting her eyebrows expectantly.

"Not here," he says. "Um, in private."

She doesn't like the serious look on his face. A cold knot of dread is forming in her stomach as she follows him to the briefing room and they sit down facing each other.

"What's going on, Castle?"

"Um." He fiddles with his hands in his lap. "I, um. I think I've gotten myself into trouble again with the 'what would Derrick Storm do' thing."

Beckett blinks, frowns. What on earth is he talking about? "What do you mean?"

"Remember when you said that Derrick is kind of an asshole? Invading a woman's privacy?" He looks up at her finally, and she sucks in a cold gulp of air. His expression is so anxious, full of apprehension. Is he scared ... of her?

"I was yanking your chain, Castle," she says uneasily.

"Yeah, but with some truth to it, right?"

"Just tell me what's going on, okay?"

"You're gonna hate me," he groans, staring at the table again.

"Castle!"

"Okay." He takes a deep, deep breath. "Last week, after you told me ... about your mom ... I asked myself what Derrick would do, when he finds out that the woman he l - likes is haunted by her mother's unsolved murder." 

Oh shit. She just knows this is going to be bad. "And? What would he do?"

"Um. Well, because he's an asshole, which we've already established, he would, uh," he stammers and finally forces it out in a rush, "he would think that the way to win her over is to solve the case for her."

Beckett goes still. Her limbs feel like lead. "What?" she says, very low, dangerous. Castle shudders.

"I'm a stupid idiot, okay? We know that already, right?" His eyes plead with her, miserable. "God, Beckett, please don't hate me."

"What did you do, Castle?" she demands.

"I, uh. I got someone to show me the case file." 

Esposito, she realizes distantly, not that it really matters. But that would explain why Javi was so twitchy the other day. 

"I thought I would show it to some experts that I know. But I didn't read it," Castle goes on hurriedly. "I mean, I cracked open the first page, and then I started thinking about what you said about invasion of privacy and Storm being a jerk, and I realized-" He speeds up desperately, seeing the anger growing on her face. "I realized that I was being an idiot. Making choices about your life without consulting you -- it was wrong. So I put the file back. I didn't read it, I swear."

"You..." She's completely at a loss, has no idea what to say. How could he? Her vision blurs; she blinks hard and stands up quickly, nearly knocking over her chair. Castle leaps to his feet also, reaching out toward her.

"Beckett-"

"Go home," she spits out harshly. "Just go." She spins and strides out as fast as she can. She doesn't see anything or anyone, doesn't know if Castle is following her or not, her mind whirling with anger and grief. She dashes for the women's restroom and locks herself into a stall, her whole body shaking. She squats next to the toilet, her stomach roiling, the sandwich she just ate threatening to come back out.

All the time and effort she has put into letting it go, putting it aside, learning to live with it. Turning herself into a functional human being. Then _he_ shows up and turns it all upside down.

After a long, agonizing few minutes, she decides she isn't going to vomit after all. Probably. She lifts herself up and sits on the closed toilet lid, trembling. Her hands and face feel clammy. She can hardly think.

A few more minutes go by, and she hears the outer door open and close. "Beckett?" comes Karpowski's voice. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she manages, her voice hoarse from holding back emotion.

"Uh ... Captain Montgomery asked me to tell you, he wants you in his office." Karpowski hands a bottle of water over the top of the stall door. "I brought you this."

"Thanks, Roz." Beckett takes the bottle and sips carefully. "Can you tell Cap I'll be out in a minute?"

"Sure thing." She hears the door open and close again.

She breathes. Sips the water. Breathes some more. Stands up and exits the stall.

She checks herself in the mirror over the sink. Her face looks a lot more composed than she feels. She takes a couple more slow calming breaths and exits the restroom, walks over to Montgomery's office, trying not to notice the curious looks she's getting from a number of people in the bullpen.

"Sir?"

"Come in, Beckett." The captain studies her as she enters and closes the door behind her. His face is lined with concern.

"Anything you'd like to tell me?" he asks after a moment. 

Beckett dithers. She really does not want to get into this with her boss, but on the other hand, he clearly knows something is going on. How much does he know?

"Not really?" she tries. Montgomery narrows his eyes at her.

"Castle bolted out of here in a hurry. What did he do?" he asks pointedly.

"Sir ... I'd really rather not talk about it," she says, as firmly as she can manage. The captain doesn't like that at all, but after chewing it over for a moment, he nods slowly.

"Okay. Listen, you had a big day yesterday, so if you need to take the rest of today-"

"No," she cuts in quickly, making eye contact and holding it. "No, sir, you don't have to send me home. I'm fine." Montgomery gives her a look that says _bullshit_. "I'm okay," she amends. "It's just paperwork anyway."

"If you say so, Detective." And he gives her a nod of dismissal.

She goes back to her desk, trying to ignore the looks Ryan and Esposito are giving her. She hopes Espo isn't going to come over and try to explain, justify, apologize. She isn't sure she can handle that right now.

But they leave her alone, and she breathes, breathes, tries to put her mind back onto the paperwork.

After a few minutes her phone rings. Castle. She presses the decline button. A few more minutes, and it rings again. She declines again. When it rings for the third time, she just turns the phone off.

Somehow, she makes it through the rest of the day, determinedly keeping her mind on paperwork and then reviewing the files for a few unsolved cases that are still sitting on her plate. At 5:00 on the dot she gathers her coat and purse and leaves without a word to anyone.

At home, after changing out of her work clothes and pouring a glass of wine, she belatedly remembers that her phone is off and she's on call. She turns it back on and clears out the stack of missed calls from Castle. He has left a few voicemails, which she deletes without listening to them.

Only a minute or so later, the phone rings. She huffs angrily, but the caller ID shows Lanie's number. She takes a calming breath and answers it, willing her voice to sound normal.

"Hey, Lanie."

"Hey, girl. You home already? It's early for you."

"Yeah, not much was happening," Beckett says, rolling her eyes at herself. "How was your day off?"

"Not bad, just shopping and housework. I hear you had some excitement yesterday," her friend says. "Almost got killed, again?"

"Oh, yeah, that." Only a day ago, but feels like it's been a year. "Just another day at the office, right?"

"I hear ya. So?" Lanie prompts, and Beckett sighs, knowing what's coming. "Did you go out with him yet?"

Beckett sinks onto the couch and, after just a brief hesitation, tells Lanie the whole story. The dinner date, the kiss, and then the revelations today. Lanie groans in dismay and Beckett can almost see her shaking her head, eyes closed, grimacing.

"That big ... _idiot_. I'm sorry, honey. Are you okay?"

"I don't know," she says honestly. "I've kind of been trying not to think about it all day."

"I get that. But listen, at least he stopped himself, and came clean to you. That's gotta count for something, right?"

"No," Beckett denies, but it's half-hearted at best. He _did_ come clean. Almost as soon as she made it clear how she felt about him poking into her mom's case, he fessed up. He could have just zipped his lip and never told her about it at all.

"Kate," Lanie says hesitantly, "you're not gonna like this, but...."

Oh god. What now? "What, Lanie?"

"Well, you know last week Castle came and hung out with me at the morgue a bit? Asking a lot of questions about procedure and that kind of thing, for his book research. Even got me to agree to let him observe an autopsy sometime."

"Yeah, he mentioned that. So?"

"So, he was telling me about the forensic pathologist he consulted with for a few of his books. I've heard of the guy, and Kate, he's good. The best in the city, if not more."

Beckett curls her legs up, hugs her knees. "What are you saying, Lanie? That I should let him look at the file? Poke into my mom's case?" Her voice catches at the end of the sentence and she gulps for air.

"Honey, I'm just saying, the science has come a long way in the last ten years, and maybe this guy would be able to see something that was missed the first time around." Lanie pauses. "But on the other hand, if you never want to see Castle again..." She lets that hang in the air, and Beckett scowls at it.

"I don't know, Lanie. I just ... you know what it did to me last time."

"Yeah, but that was a while ago, and you're more experienced now, you have better support, right?"

That's true. She's a homicide detective now, with plenty of real-world experience and a team to back her up. A world removed from the clueless rookie she was back when she first started poking into the case.

"Just think about it," Lanie urges. "You don't have to decide anything right now."

"Yeah..." She frowns a little. "Never want to see him again? Is that what you think?"

"Uh..." Lanie sounds surprised. "You tell me, girl. You went out with him, had a good time. If this other shit hadn't happened, maybe you'd be out with him again tonight, right now. Yeah?"

"Maybe? I guess?" She sighs. "I don't want to never see him again. Is that stupid?"

"Hell no," Lanie says firmly. "What's stupid is him, but at least he knows that he messed up. Now you just gotta figure out what you're gonna do about it."


	16. Invasions

The next morning, somehow, there's still no new case, so Beckett is stuck doing paperwork again. She's nervous and twitchy at her desk, wondering whether Castle will show up.

She can't decide whether she wants him to show up or not. She woke up this morning wondering whether she has overreacted. Okay, Castle overstepped in a major way, but at least he recognized it and had the guts to tell her about it and apologize. Can she really continue to be furious at him when he's so clearly repentant?

But. It's her mom's case -- her mom's murder. Not as raw any more, but still an open wound in her heart even after all this time, all this healing. And the memories of the awful period in her life right after her mom's death, the stupid things she did back then, the long fight to pull herself back to sanity -- and the memories of Castle -- it's all mixed up together for her, interwoven so completely that she can't sort any of it out. She just doesn't know what to do.

An hour or so into the paperwork, Ryan comes over. "Hey, Beckett?"

"Yeah?"

"Um, Castle just called."

She looks up from her computer and frowns at him. "He called you? Why?"

"Asked if you were still mad at him. If I thought he should come in today or not."

"Really?" She frowns some more, considering it. She doesn't even know whether she's still mad at Castle or not, so how could Ryan know? "What did you tell him?"

"Said I didn't know, but there's no case anyway, so I told him maybe he should just wait until a body drops and we'll call him then." He looks at her a little nervously. "Was that okay?"

Beckett nods slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, that was good. Thanks, Kev."

"No problem."

"Ya know," says Esposito, who has been listening in, "if you gotta kill him and need help hiding the body, you can always call us."

She smiles a little. "Yeah, I know. Thanks, guys."

The day passes in relative quiet. Two days in a row with no new murder case is almost unheard of, and yet apparently that's what they've got.

Late in the afternoon, the paperwork finished, Beckett finds herself downstairs in the archives room. Old, dusty emotions grip her as she walks the familiar aisles and pulls down the familiar box and takes out the file folder she knows so well.

She stands there in the aisle and flips through the pages, hardly seeing them. She doesn't need to read the words to know what they say. She doesn't need to look at the photos of her mother's lifeless body.

She does, however, find herself reviewing the autopsy report and noticing something that brings a small frown to her face. She studies it, biting her lip, thinking.

After a moment she puts the papers back in the folder, her hands shaking slightly. Puts the folder back in the box, the box back on the shelf.

She goes back to her desk and sits staring at her computer monitor, not seeing it, lost in thought.

Her cell phone rings. Esposito.

"Beckett."

"Yo, we got one. Looks like another of these home invasions."

She's on her feet, reaching for her coat, even as Esposito reels off the address and she jots it down.

"Okay. Be there in fifteen."

"'Kay, and uh, you want me to call Castle?"

She closes her eyes briefly. "Um, yeah, I guess so. Thanks."

Castle meets her in the lobby of the very upscale apartment building. "Evening, Detective," he says, his tone casual, but his eyes are anxious, searching her face.

"Evening," she says, outwardly calm. On the drive over, she asked herself a dozen more times what she's going to do about Castle, and she still has no answers.

They get in the elevator and he says, "So, uh, Esposito said something about this being a part of a pattern?"

"Yes," she says, not looking at him, "there's been a series of home invasion robberies over the past few months, and it looks like this one fits the mold."

"Months?" he repeats. "And you haven't found anything?"

"The first two weren't homicides. They didn't kill anyone until last week, and that was on my day off. Ryan and Esposito caught it, but they've gotten nowhere yet."

"Ahh." He nods, and the elevator bell rings.

Stepping off the elevator, the first thing they see is Ryan, exiting the victim's apartment with a tissue clutched to his face. "No sign of forced entry, same as the others." He sneezes loudly.

"Bless you," Beckett says automatically, and hears Castle saying the same. They look at each other.

"Jinx," Castle says quickly, and she just barely manages to stop herself from smiling. He's such a child sometimes.

"What's wrong with Ryan?" she asks Esposito as he comes out to join them.

"Goose down. He's allergic."

"I'm sorry," Castle cuts in, "under the time-honored rules of jinx, you're not allowed to speak until I release you." He gives her a tiny hopeful smile.

Before she can respond, Ryan sneezes again. "Bless you!" Beckett and Castle say in unison again.

"Reverse double jinx," she adds quickly, and sees a flash of elation pass quickly over Castle's face.

"I-"

"Uh-uh, Castle, mouth shut until I release you." She can't help the small smile that steals across her lips. "Thank you, Ryan."

Growing serious again, she turns to Esposito, who gives them the bullet points of the situation and takes them into the room where the body was found. The sight of the dead woman stuffed into her own safe gives them all pause. Looking across the apartment at the victim's adult daughter, Beckett feels a pang of sorrow and sympathy.

Lanie, crouched on the floor gathering evidence, gives Beckett a questioning eyebrow-lift, flickering her glance to Castle and back. Beckett responds with a quick head-shake, and gets back a narrow-eyed glare that means they will be speaking again soon.

Castle crouches down also and makes a comment about a pillow used as a silencer, to which Beckett clears her throat meaningfully.

"Yes, yes, I broke the jinx, I will buy you a soda," he promises. She smirks ever so slightly, sees Lanie noticing it, and turns away to hide her face from her friend.

They pace around the apartment briefly, seeing nothing else of interest. The victim's daughter has given her initial statement and gone home to notify the rest of the family; they'll speak with her tomorrow. Meanwhile, CSU is getting ready to begin, so the detectives are just in the way.

Finished with the crime scene for now, Beckett departs with Castle and the boys, leaving Lanie and her team to extract the body from the safe. In the elevator Beckett confers with Ryan and Esposito, putting their plan together for how to approach the case tomorrow.

They exit the apartment building, Beckett and the boys calling goodnights to each other as they split up. Castle, of course, follows Beckett toward her car. 

"Beckett. Beckett, can we talk?" 

"No." She doesn't want to talk about it -- whichever 'it' that might be -- right now. Her heels rap sharply on the concrete. She steps around the corner, onto the darker, less populated street where she left her car. Castle is still right behind her.

"Beckett, please-"

She spins around to face him, overflowing with frustration at all the emotions she doesn't know how to name or handle. Before he can say anything else she grabs him by the lapels and pulls him against her body, fusing her mouth to his.

Castle gives a grunt of surprise but quickly recovers, sliding his arms around her back, meeting the hunger of her kiss with his own. It feels so good, so good, and she moans softly as her tongue slips out and meets his.

He pulls back a little and asks breathlessly, "Does this mean you're not mad at me any more?"

"No," she snaps, pressing another kiss onto his lips, and another, "it means I hate you."

He dips his head to kiss her chin, her jaw, the soft spot under her ear, making her hiss and clutch at him as arousal slams through her. 

"Don't take this the wrong way," he says into her neck, his stubble scratching her skin, "but I think you might be a little confused."

She pushes at his shoulders, forcing his head away, ignoring her body's disappointed reaction. "Castle, you still don't know when to shut up."

"Hey, I asked if we could talk," he points out, tugging her closer, and she realizes that his arms are still around her. He moves to kiss her again and she turns her face aside, but then relents and turns back and lets him reclaim her mouth. His tongue slides hot and slick against the roof of her mouth. Oh, his kisses make her weak, and she doesn't know what to do, except she knows that if she lets this go on much longer she'll put him in her car and take him home with her. And that wouldn't be right, not yet.

So she pulls her mouth away, reluctantly, and pushes at his shoulders again. "Let go." As always, he obeys immediately, although his eyes are dark and the groan he lets out makes her gut twist with guilt.

"Beckett," he says hoarsely, but she shakes her head hard and interrupts.

"Castle, I spent so long building up walls to protect myself, and you come barging in like a bulldozer, like a wrecking ball." She hates the petulant note in her voice, the way it comes out sounding more like pleading with him than excoriating him.

But he nods, accepting. "I get it. You don't like feeling vulnerable, and I'm really sorry about that. But..." he meets her eyes, all soft persuasion, "is life behind the walls making you happy?"

"You don't get to say things like that after you've been digging around in my past without permission," she snaps, and knows as soon as it's out that it makes no sense, but she's too mixed up to care. "I'm going home," she adds. "We'll get on this case first thing in the morning."

She stomps around to the driver's door of the car, gets in, and drives home.

She's getting ready for bed when Lanie calls. 

"Hey, Lanie, any news about the case?"

"Girl, you know I ain't calling at this hour about the case."

Beckett rolls her eyes and plops down on her bed. "Lanie, I don't want to talk about it."

"Course you don't," her friend snorts. "But I saw you and writer boy being all jokey and everything tonight. You patch things up or what?"

"Not exactly." She flashes back to the kisses on the street, and blushes.

It's as if Lanie can hear her skin heating up. "You're holding out on me," she scolds. "But okay, it's late. Get some sleep, and we're gonna talk again soon."

"Okay ... Wait, Lanie, can I ask you something?"

"Yeah, first you take the condom out of the package, and then you unroll it onto his-"

"Shut up!" Beckett puts a hand over her face, snickering, blushing some more. "It hasn't been _that_ long."

"Been a while for you, girlfriend. But go ahead, what's the question?"

"Not anything like that. It's about work."

"Oh." Lanie drops the teasing tone of voice. "Okay, shoot."

"Well," Beckett says carefully, pulling her knees up and hugging them, "suppose you got a case that was an apparently random stabbing. A, a body found in an alley with multiple stab wounds." She pauses, hears Lanie's slow breathing, knows that her friend is following her. "How long, um, how long would that autopsy take?"

Lanie's reply comes slowly. "A case like that, especially with no known suspect, minimum two hours. Probably more, to make sure I'm being thorough and getting everything I can."

Beckett squeezes her eyes shut until she sees sparks behind her eyelids. Her whole body is trembling again; she feels cold. "Thanks," she manages, "that's what I thought."

"You wanna tell me what's going on, Kate?" Lanie asks quietly, sympathetically.

"I ... no. Not yet." She gives an uneven, shuddering sigh. "I need to think about it first. But thanks."

"Any time, girl, you know that. You call me any time."

"I will. Good night, Lanie."

"Night, Kate."

* * *

At the precinct the next morning, she's setting up the whiteboard when Castle comes in. Her breath catches briefly at the sight of the deep blue sweater he has chosen today. It brings out his eyes and looks especially good on him. Well, shit.

He greets her neutrally, putting her coffee and bear claw on her desk. She manages a return greeting and thanks him coolly.

She occupies herself with the case, getting all of the victim photos lined up on the murder board and the locations marked on the map. She and Ryan and Esposito go over the details of each robbery, bringing Castle up to speed. They break off when the latest victim's daughter arrives to give her statement.

Beckett's conversation with the daughter is harrowing, hitting all of her emotional buttons, bringing back memories with painful force. She sees herself all over again, hurting and desperate, instinctively blaming herself, thinking of all the things she could have done, should have done. Her cop armor is on, but there are cracks in it today. 

She sits down and makes eye contact with the young woman, and vows to get her justice. They share a long moment of damp-eyed connection.

Afterward, Castle follows her to the vending machine and buys her a soda. He's quiet at first, then compliments her handling of the victim's daughter. She deflects the conversation toward banter, and he follows her lead. It's all familiar and comfortable, the gentle teasing between them.

As they head to the elevator, she jokingly refers to Castle's books as pulp, and he defends himself vehemently with an appeal to the _New York Review of Books._

"I read that piece," she says. "And even you have to admit that it's more than a little hyperbolic." She gets quite a bit of satisfaction from the way his jaw drops. "So how much did you pay the reviewer?"

"A case of Châteauneuf-Du-Pape, but that's not the point," he says, following her into the elevator. "The point is, you read the _New York Review of Books_?"

"Oh, so many layers to the Beckett onion," she jokes as the elevator doors close. "However will you peel them all?"

Castle steps closer, crowding her against the wall. "I can think of a few things to peel off you," he murmurs, low and seductive, fingering the collar of her jacket. Her pulse quickens as she looks up into his eyes.

"Castle," she says sharply.

"Hmm?" he replies, his gaze fixed on her mouth.

"Security cameras in the elevator," she tells him, and is amused by the way his eyes widen as he startles, stepping quickly away from her.

"Really? Where?" He cranes his neck up, scanning the corners of the ceiling.

"Behind," she says, indicating the wall above the buttons. "Hidden panel to prevent tampering."

"That is so cool," he enthuses, pulling out his little notebook. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. The man is absurd.


	17. Ammunition

Beckett and Castle spend the next couple of hours interviewing people who knew the various home-invasion victims, with little to show for it. 

Back at the precinct, the boys have picked up a guy with a history of break-ins, but Beckett's interview with him yields little useful information. His smug attitude and condescension are infuriating, and worse, he has an alibi for at least one of the burglaries. They've gotten nowhere.

She takes her frustration to the shooting range, and is further annoyed when Castle shows up, still looking more attractive in the blue sweater than he has any right to.

She tries to tell him to leave her alone, but of course he won't. "Look, I get it, all right?" he says. "You made a promise to a daughter to find her mother's killer. It doesn't take Freud to see what's what."

"Drop it, Castle," she orders, turning back to put a few more holes in the paper silhouette.

"Wouldn't it be more of a challenge if they weren't standing still?" he needles, and she huffs in exasperation.

"Okay, Castle, you show me how it's done." She has to admit she's a little curious after Esposito's comment the other day about teaching Castle how to shoot. She suspects that Espo and Ryan have brought Castle here to practice already.

If so, he doesn't let on. He's as excited as a kid at Christmas, rushing to put on eye and ear protection, picking up the gun, aiming it one-handed like something out of a movie. She groans and rolls her eyes.

"It's not a duel, Scaramouche." She puts her hands on his waist and nudges him into the correct position. As he lifts his gun arm, he pulls the trigger accidentally, and the shot goes wide.

"Whoa! Shot too soon," he jokes.

"Yeah, well." She smirks, unable to stop herself. "You know, we could always just cuddle, Castle."

His face lights up with delight. "Oh, funny!" He turns to see her face. "And a smile, good." Suddenly embarrassed, she tries to get her scowl back, but somehow it won't come.

Abruptly, both she and Castle realize that she's still pressed up against his back, her arms halfway around his body. She takes a quick breath in and tries to pull away, but Castle is faster, twisting toward her and catching her around the waist with one arm. 

She hears the click of the safety, and then the gun clatters onto the ledge and Castle pushes her against the partition, his body pressed against hers, warm and solid, holding her in place while he whips off his protective gear and hers. Then his mouth is inches from hers, but he stops himself, with visible effort. He won't kiss her without permission. His eyes catch and hold hers while her chest heaves against him, her breathing fast and choppy.

"So this is your idea of reducing my stress?" she whispers hoarsely, willing herself not to lose control.

"Is it working?" he grins, licking his lips. She shivers deeply, but pushes him away.

"Workplace, Castle. Boundaries."

"Right. Right." He sighs unevenly and lets her go, stepping back carefully. "You know, I, uh, came down to ask you if I could take home some of those stolen property photos."

"Photos of the jewelry?" she asks, surprised. "Why?"

"Thought it might spark something," he shrugs evasively. Beckett's radar goes up. He's up to something, and if she asks, he'll probably deny it. But she sees an opportunity to test her suspicion about the boys teaching Castle to shoot.

"Tell you what," she says, picking up the eyewear and earmuffs that Castle dropped when he grabbed her, "you put any of the next three in the ten ring, and I'll give you the files."

"Yeah?" he says eagerly, and at her nod he quickly pops the eye and ear protectors back on, picks up the gun, snaps the safety off, and squeezes off three shots without fanfare -- hitting dead center with all three.

Beckett lifts her eyebrows in surprise.

Castle gives her a smirk that undoubtedly would have driven her to the height of fury if she hadn't already had her suspicions. "You're a very good teacher," he drawls, and she scowls, giving him her death-glare, pretending to be irate. For reasons she can't quite pinpoint, she isn't ready to let him know that she knows.

They go back upstairs and she gives him copies of the evidence photos. He immediately disappears, leaving Beckett to go over Mitchell's alibi with a fine-toothed comb. She's distracted by wondering what Castle wants with the photos. He's making trouble, she's sure of that, but how?

* * *

"Yo," says Esposito as he and Ryan get back from another fruitless canvass. "Come up with anything?"

"Nope," Beckett replies, "not even a good explanation for why the two of you didn't tell me you took Castle to the shooting range."

Both boys look guilty. "How'd you find out?" Ryan asks.

"You just told me." She smirks. They look astonished and then outraged.

"Oldest trick in the book. Can't believe you fell for that one," Espo complains to his partner, smacking him upside the head. Ryan gapes indignantly.

"Me? You were right there."

"Guys! Focus," Beckett snaps. "The last thing we need is Castle getting any more ideas about participating in the dangerous shit."

"Well, that's the thing, boss," Esposito says, exchanging a look with Ryan. "We took him to the range, but turns out he already knew how to shoot."

She sits back in her chair, eyebrows lifting. "Really?"

"True story," Ryan chimes in, "he tried to hustle us at first, pretending like he didn't know what he was doing, but the guy's a great shot."

"Conned me out of fifty bucks," Esposito grouses. Beckett shakes her head at him.

"Sounds like you were an idiot to bet against him. So is that how he got you to show him my mom's case file?"

"You what?" Ryan yelps, staring at his partner.

Esposito grimaces. "Yeah, sorry about that, Beckett. After the shooting range we went out for a beer, and got talking, and he asked if I'd get him into archives to see the file."

"You never told me that," Ryan accuses, looking almost hurt.

"Well, you left the bar early." Esposito looks over at Beckett again, apologetic. "I shouldn't have agreed to it, though. Guess I was stupid twice that day."

Beckett gives him the death glare and holds it for a long moment, enough to see him squirm, then relents. "Nah, it's okay. He can be pretty damn persuasive." And Castle clearly figured out that bonding over shooting is the way to Espo's heart.

"So..." Ryan says tentatively, "that's what you were mad at him about? But you guys are okay again, right?"

Beckett carefully doesn't think about all the kissing and almost-kissing the past two days. "Yeah, we're okay." There's one more thing she wants to clear up, though. She gives the boys an appraising look. "So, which day of the weekend was it you took him shooting?"

Esposito spots the trap this time and tries to signal Ryan, but without success. "Saturday, why?" Ryan asks, all innocent curiosity.

"No reason," Beckett says coolly as Espo shakes his head and gives her a sheepish look. It was Monday when Esposito brought up the shooting range idea to Beckett -- after he and Ryan had already done it. So he knows that she knows that he was covering his ass.

She doesn't really care about that, though. She was just curious, so now she's satisfied on that score. She can go back to fretting about what new trouble Castle is planning with the photos.

She and the boys get back to work, but they're spinning their wheels. Nothing much is popping, so finally Beckett decides to go back to the crime scene and have another look around. Maybe there's something she didn't notice in all the furor about the body in the safe and the feathers everywhere.

In the car, alone, she wonders yet again what she is going to do about Castle. Has she forgiven him for poking into her mother's murder? It certainly seems that way. But all that means is that she's back to where she was at the end of the dinner date -- confused, uncertain, and scared of where things are going.

Castle certainly seems to have ideas about where they're going. He's made it pretty clear that he wants ... something more than just the rest of the story, and more than just another roll in the hay. Put that at the top of the list of things she's scared of.

A close second on that list is the idea that she might already be too deep into this to get out.

She parks the car outside the apartment building and closes her eyes briefly, sighing. Her life was so much simpler before Castle came crashing back into it.

Stepping off the elevator on the victim's floor, she checks the hallway and finds everything in order. The crime-scene tape is still in place across the door frame, but as she approaches, she sees flickers of light and hears what sounds like voices from inside the supposedly sealed apartment.

She draws her gun and turns the doorknob very slowly, trying not to make any noise. If she's about to startle the burglars on a repeat visit, she doesn't want to tip them off.

She opens the door slowly, peers inside, and sees...

"Castle?!"

"Hey!" he exclaims, looking surprised. "What's going on?"

Beckett holsters her gun, glaring at him. "What the hell are you doing here in the dark, unauthorized?"

"Um." He looks around and mutters something like _how does he do that?_

"Castle, get out here." She steps back and waits while he wriggles past the police tape and closes the door. "Now, explain yourself."

He follows her toward the elevator, babbling something about bringing an 'expert' to look at the crime scene. Beckett is highly skeptical.

"What kind of expert are we talking about? CSU has already been through for forensics."

"Um, more of a breaking-and-entering expert really," he says guiltily. Beckett pauses to parse that out and then narrows her eyes at him.

"Does that mean what I think it means? An actual criminal?" She isn't sure which is more alarming: the idea of Castle going in there with some kind of lowlife, or the fact that she apparently can now understand his evasive language.

"Well..." He breaks under her glare and tells her about his friend, the jewel thief with a knack for coming and going invisibly, like a ghost.

"You brought a thief to a crime scene," she says flatly, in disbelief.

"It was very helpful," he tries as they get onto the elevator.

"It was criminal trespassing!"

"Tomato, to-mah-to," Castle scoffs, moving closer to her, into her personal space. What is it with him and elevators?

"Tell your friend to keep up his disappearing act," she says sternly, "and the next time you show up at a crime scene without me, I'll show you how my taser works."

Castle's face lights up. "Promise?" he asks too eagerly, running his fingertips along her arm and down toward the holster on her hip. She rolls her eyes, ignoring the immediate response of her body to his light touch.

"Seriously, Castle, not everything is an innuendo."

"That's a defeatist attitude, Detective," he murmurs, smiling slightly, leaning in toward her.

The elevator door opens and he sighs a little, moving back to let her exit.

"So why were you there?" he asks as they leave the building and get into her car.

"Seeing if there's anything I missed," she admits, and turns to face him expectantly. He just looks at her, not taking the bait.

"So?" she prompts after a moment.

"So?" he repeats, confused.

"Was there?" She sighs a little. She should have stayed and looked around the apartment, not let Castle's presence distract her. Then again, if she had flushed out his burglar friend, things could have gotten ugly.

"I don't think so," he says vaguely, distracted, thinking about something. She watches him for a moment, then shrugs and turns to buckle her seatbelt.

"Beckett," he says, coming back to himself.

"What?" she asks, and looks up to find him leaning closer, giving her that heated look. Her breath catches and she shifts away ever so slightly.

Castle lifts his hand and runs a finger along the back of her hand on the steering wheel. She shivers, hard. Such a light touch, again, and already she's starting to burn.

"Can we have dinner again? Tonight," he says. "Or tomorrow. Soon."

She bites her lower lip, trying to think about it against the maddening, intoxicating distraction of his finger drawing circles on the back of her hand.

Does she want to go out with him again? Dumb question. Of course she does, but she's still so anxious about the _what next_ of it all. Another dinner, and then what? How much more of this roller coaster can she stand?

"You're still mad at me," he says into the silence, dropping his hand back into his lap. Her own hand continues to tingle where he was touching it.

"No," she says unconvincingly, "I'm just...."

"It was nice the other night," he says wistfully, "before I fucked things up with my idiocy. It was a good d - dinner, wasn't it?"

"It was a good date," she sighs, and her heart twists at the relieved and hopeful look on his face. "I just, I don't know if I'm ready for..."

"To step out from behind those walls?" he finishes for her. His finger comes up and resumes tracing spirals on the back of her hand.

"You have to stop touching me at work," she says, low.

"We're not at work right now," he replies, still touching her with just that one finger, sending sparks rolling up her arm with each stroke.

"I'm on duty," she objects, pulling her hand into her lap. "We're in a police car. It counts."

"How often do you think cops make out with other cops in these motor-pool cars?" Castle asks, grinning a little. She glares at him.

"Fraternization between coworkers is strictly forbidden by the NYPD." She pulls her eyes away from his hypnotizing gaze and stares out the front window.

"That's not an answer," he chuckles. "I'm sure it happens anyway. Come on, fess up, Beckett. Have you ever done it? Made out in a cop car?"

"Just the once," she says to the windshield, "and Esposito is sworn to secrecy."

She has to sneak a glance over at Castle when she doesn't immediately hear a response, and then she bursts out laughing at the look on his face. "Oh my god, Castle, you are so easy!" She puts the key in the ignition and starts the car. "For heaven's sake."

"You - what - that was a joke?" he splutters. "You evil woman. I thought...."

She's still giggling a little as she shifts into drive and pulls out into traffic. "Come on, Castle. You know better than that, and Javier is so not my type." _You're my type,_ they both hear her very carefully not saying.

"Well," he huffs, and then descends into sulky silence for a few minutes while she drives.

He recovers, though, and says, "Did Mitchell make bail yet?"

"Paperwork's not done yet," she replies, a little sullenly. Castle just looks at her. "I'm holding him out of spite," she admits, grimacing.

"I want to talk to him." 

Back at the precinct, Castle pleads his case to Beckett and Montgomery. He won't quite say why, but he thinks Mitchell knows something and will give it up to him. They reluctantly agree to let Castle go into Mitchell's holding cell. Wearing a wire, of course.

Annoyingly, it works. Mitchell takes a liking to Castle (go figure) and agrees to describe the guy who leads the home-invasion crew.

"Good work," Montgomery says to both Castle and Beckett after they send in the sketch artist. "Go home, you two. We'll have the sketch in the morning."

Castle waits until the captain has left, and then says quietly, "So, dinner?"

Beckett takes a deep breath, thinks about it for a moment, and then asks, "Have we taken you to Remy's yet?"

"The burger place, where all the cops go?" He perks up. "The guys mentioned it, but I haven't been."

"I think you'll like it," she murmurs, trying not to let her smile break loose. She grabs her coat and purse.


	18. Bibbidy Bobbidy Boo

At Remy's, they sit on opposite sides of a booth and order burgers with fries and milkshakes. Beckett hopes that the presence of a number of other NYPD detectives will help her keep things at arm's length.

"I'm sorry about Mitchell," Castle says as they wait for the food.

"Why?" she asks, surprised.

"Well, the way he gave up the goods to me, when you couldn't get anything out of him." She bristles briefly, but realizes that Castle isn't bragging; he actually looks ... angry?

"It's the misogyny thing again, isn't it?" he goes on, scowling, and she gets it. A hot button for him, apparently. "All these lowlifes thinking they can get one over on you, just because you're a woman. Doesn't it drive you crazy?"

"No," she says simply. "It doesn't, because it gives me an advantage. Any time someone underestimates me, for whatever reason, it puts me in the driver's seat."

Castle blinks, a strange expression coming over his face. "You ... that's ... wow." He quickly fumbles in his jacket for his little notebook. "That's amazing. That's exactly it, the hook."

"The hook? What does that mean?" She watches curiously as he scribbles across a page, flips it over, scribbles some more. The food arrives and Castle is still feverishly writing. Beckett is fascinated. She wonders if this is how he always gets when inspiration strikes.

She's a third of the way through her burger by the time he stops and puts the notebook down. "Wow. Okay, that was awesome," he says, giving her a look of reverence as he busies himself with ketchup.

"What just happened?"

"Oh." He blinks some more, like he's just waking up. "Um, what you said about underestimating you and giving you an advantage. I realized that was the key to the scene I've been working on, where Nikki is fighting with this bad guy."

Beckett feels a little thrill, the one she gets every time she thinks about Castle writing a whole book based on her. "So, the guy is underestimating Nikki?"

"Yeah, oh yeah." He chews, swallows, sips his milkshake, grins. "This guy is a really badass hardcore Russian thug, and he attacks Nikki, and he figures she'll be easy to take down because she's a woman and-" Abruptly he stops, snapping his mouth shut. Beckett's eyes widen as she sees his ears turn red. Uh oh.

"What?" she asks dangerously. Castle blushes some more, focuses on his food.

"Wow, these french fries are amazing," he mumbles.

"Castle." She reaches out as if to twist his ear, and he shies away.

"Okay, okay. She's naked, okay? It's not a big deal."

Beckett narrows her eyes at him. "Nikki Heat is naked? In a fight with a Russian thug?" She shouldn't be surprised, should she? Derrick Storm is always getting into fistfights with scantily-clad female assassins and such.

"Um. Well, yeah, because he breaks into her apartment when she's about to take a bath." He looks at her a little shamefacedly. "But the point is, it's just like you said. The guy doesn't take Nikki seriously because she's a naked woman, and that gives her the advantage."

"So she wins the fight?"

"Uh, sort of." He straightens up suddenly. "Whoa. Don't think you can pump me for spoilers, Detective Beckett! I'm not saying another word."

"That'll be the day," she huffs, shaking her head. "Okay, Castle, but just remember, my dad will probably read this book. So you better not put anything in it that you wouldn't want to read about Alexis."

His eyes widen. "That's a low blow. Ouch. That's dirty pool, Beckett."

She smirks, and they finish their meal, talking about the case.

As Beckett is chasing the ketchup with the last of her fries, and Castle is slurping the last of his milkshake, she sees that same odd expression come over his face again. His fingers twitch and he's mouthing words to himself. He almost seems to have forgotten she's there -- forgotten anyone or anything is there.

"Castle," she calls softly, reluctant to jerk him out of it. He startles and looks over at her.

"Oh. Oh god, I'm sorry. I zoned out."

"I think you need to get home to your computer," she says gently. He stares at her, clearly torn.

"No, Beckett, I..."

"It's okay, Castle. I know that thousand-yard stare. It's a little like how we cops get when we're on a hot trail."

"Yeah." He stares at his notebook, thoroughly distracted. He doesn't even try to make an innuendo out of 'hot trail,' so she knows it must be bad.

"Come on, Castle." She puts some money down on the table and stands up, tugging him along after her. "Let's get you home."

Out on the street, she dithers briefly before hailing a taxi and putting them both into it. It's just easier that way. She gives the driver Castle's address.

He's writing in his little notebook again, but after a minute or two he surfaces and focuses on her. "Beckett? Where are we going?"

"I'm taking you home to write," she says, amused. Apparently in this quasi-fugue state he isn't registering half of what she says.

"Oh..." He pauses, puts the notebook and pen back in his pocket. "So does that mean you don't want to make out in the cab?"

"What?" She's surprised by the sudden return of his attention, and unprepared for him to come sliding across the seat toward her, his hand lifting up to the back of her neck. He leans in, but slowly, giving her plenty of time to stop him.

She doesn't stop him. She lifts her own hands to his shoulders and meets him halfway. Their mouths join and she sighs softly, wrapping her arms around him, opening to his tongue.

His hand is at her waist, fingertips flirting with the bottom of her shirt, dipping slightly inside to brush across her skin. She moans and arches against him, sliding her fingers into his hair. She lets her teeth graze his upper lip and he gasps, shuddering against her.

The cabbie clears his throat loudly and they pull apart, reluctantly. They're parked at the curb outside Castle's loft.

"Beckett," Castle rasps, and she reaches out to smooth down his rumpled hair.

"Go home, Castle. Work on your fight scene. It's itching at you right now, isn't it?"

He ducks his head, a little embarrassed, but she doesn't mind. It's fascinating to see the writer in action, a side of him she hasn't seen until now.

"I'm sorry," he offers, but she shakes her head.

"No, no. You have to get it out. Go."

He nods jerkily, pats his pocket to make sure he has his notebook, and gets out of the cab.

"Night, Castle," she says through the door just before he closes it.

"Until tomorrow, Beckett."

He goes inside and she gives the cabbie her address.

She gets home and changes her clothes, goes into the bathroom and stands there staring at herself in the mirror. The voice she hears in her head isn't the imaginary therapist's any more; it's her own voice.

 _You already know what you want,_ it says. _And you know what you have to do about it. You just have to push past the fear and do it._

* * *

The next day, they show the sketch of their suspect to the victim's daughter, but she doesn't recognize him. She does, however, give them a clue that leads them to the connection between the four home-invasion victims: they all donated to the same charity. A bit of good old-fashioned detective work helps them identify which one.

They're on the way to speak with the director of the charity, and Castle says a little diffidently, "I'm sorry about last night."

"What?" Beckett asks, focused on navigating the busy streets.

"At dinner. I wasn't exactly my usual charming self."

"Oh, it's okay." She glances sideways at him. "It was kind of cool, actually. Seeing you get an inspiration and run with it."

"Really?" He smiles tentatively. She sees the ghosts of other women in his eyes, probably saying things like _You aren't listening to me_ and _Why did you bring me here if you're just going to ignore me?_ Idiots, she thinks to herself.

"Really," she nods. "I didn't mind. Did you finish the scene you were writing?"

"Yeah," he says, perking up, "and it's awesome. If I do say so myself."

She shakes her head tolerantly. "Apparently, you do."

The director of the charity flat-out refuses to cough up her donor list without a warrant. So Beckett is soon back at her desk, ignoring everything Ryan and Esposito try to say, scowling darkly at her computer as she fills out the form to request the warrant.

She's in no mood to be teased by Castle about the likelihood that judges will refuse to sign the court order because most of them are on the charity's board of directors. When she snaps at him, Castle backs up a step as if in surrender, but of course, surrender is the last thing on his mind.

"Whoa, hey, you seem a little stressed," he says, and she doesn't like the look of that twinkle in his eye. "Hey, you know what you need? A night out on the town."

Beckett freezes. Is he ... he's not actually asking her out on another date right here, in the middle of the bullpen, in front of Ryan and Esposito? She will _kill_ him.

"A what now?" she asks in her most dangerous tone of voice. Castle holds up two tickets, grinning.

"What are those?"

As he begins to explain, she suddenly gets it. Ohh, it's all about the case, and it makes complete sense -- it's a really good idea, in fact. All of the charity's wealthy donors will be at the swanky fund-raiser, so the odds are good that the robbers' point man will be there also, getting a good look at the jewelry, choosing the next target.

Plus, it's the perfect cover for Beckett and Castle to go on another date without anyone knowing. Her stomach flutters a little at the idea.

But even as she grasps all of this in the space of a heartbeat, she plays it cool. "No," she says firmly, for the sake of the audience -- Esposito and Ryan -- and glares at Castle as if his idea offends her personally. She plays out the conversation, faking reluctance, allowing herself to appear to be won over by Castle's persistence.

"Pick me up at eight? Oh, it's, uh, a black-tie event," he adds at the last moment. "That's not a problem, is it?"

The boys, who have probably never seen Beckett in a skirt in their lives, look at her with wide eyes. An idea takes root in the back of her mind, and she has to suppress a grin.

"Uh, no," she replies coolly. "No." No problem at all.

Castle leaves, and Beckett gives it a little while longer before she takes off also. "See you boys at the shindig," she tosses over her shoulder, and races home to get ready.

While she showers, she thinks about what she's planning, and cold fingers of apprehension twist in her guts. But she ignores them, pushes them away. Her mind is made up.

She's out of the shower and drying her hair when the doorbell rings. It's Lanie. "I heard you're going partying with the fancy people," she announces as soon as Beckett opens the door, "so I came to help you get ready." She holds up a bag full of clothes. "Brought a few dresses in case you don't have anything appropriate."

"Oh, thanks, Lanie, but I have the perfect thing," Beckett replies. "But I'd love your help with my hair."

"Okay," her friend says, a little skeptically, "well, lemme see what you think you got for a dress. And it better not be what you wore to the prom, lady."

"Please. I'm not completely hopeless." Beckett leads Lanie into her bedroom.

"Wow," Lanie breathes, impressed. "This came from your closet? You, Kate Beckett?"

"Shut up. I do occasionally go out, you know."

"Okay," her friend says, all business, "put it on and let's talk hair."

* * *

At 7:59 on the dot, Beckett is standing outside Castle's door, steeling herself. It's an undercover operation, she reminds herself firmly, _not_ a date. The excited flutters in her belly are completely uncalled for.

She rolls her eyes at herself and rings the doorbell.

Martha opens the door, takes one look, and gushes "Stunning. Simply stunning." Beckett smiles bashfully. "Oh, hang on, hang on," the diva adds, and flutters away, leaving Beckett looking at Castle resplendent in his tux, his daughter by his side.

"You look incredible," Alexis is saying, but Castle stands tongue-tied, speechless, his mouth slightly open in shock. Beckett can't suppress a little smile of triumph. His reaction is everything she had hoped for.

The forest-green dress still fits her as perfectly as it did nine years ago, when she wore it to David's cousin's wedding. She still has the same earrings and the same stiletto heels she wore with it back then, all of which met with Lanie's approval. The medical examiner did argue with Beckett about leaving her neck bare, but she was adamant. _I never wear a necklace with this dress,_ she told Lanie; _it's a long story, okay?_ and her friend saw something in Beckett's eyes that caused her to shrug and relent.

Lanie doesn't need to know that Kate has only ever worn this dress once before, nor that her reason for not wearing a necklace with it is intimately tied to her mother, via the engagement ring -- and, by the weird logic of emotional association, to Castle.

"Really?" she says in belated response to Alexis, and the teen elbows her father, not subtly.

"Really!" he exclaims, regaining control of his voice. "You clean up nice, Detective Beckett."

"Thank you, Castle," she replies softly.

Then Martha is back, holding a necklace of deep green stones, chirping about the Tony Awards as she moves to fasten it around Beckett's neck.

"Oh, no, Martha, I couldn't," Beckett protests, but the necklace is beautiful, and it does go perfectly with the dress. 

Well, she's taking a lot of steps forward these days; maybe one more won't hurt.

"Yes you can," Martha tells her firmly. "Oh, it's brilliant."

Beckett looks down at the necklace, feeling Castle's eyes on her.

"So," Martha goes on, nudging her, "where are you guys headed tonight?"

Beckett lifts her head and sees Castle frantically shaking his head and making throat-cutting gestures behind his mother. He doesn't want Martha to know where the benefit is being held? Interesting. "Uh, we're going to the Waldorf," she says, and sees Castle sigh and lift his eyes briefly to the heavens as if in supplication.

Moments later they're settling in to the town car that Castle ordered, and he's still almost incapable of speech, still staring at her like she's a ghost, or maybe a fantasy.

"Whom are you pretending to be tonight, Beckett?" he finally asks.

"Tonight I'm not pretending anything," she answers calmly. Castle's eyebrows go up.

"I'm not imagining things, am I?" he says as the car pulls smoothly into traffic. "That's the same dress."

"You're not imagining things," she replies with complete composure. For maybe the first time since Castle came back into her life, she feels entirely calm, entirely in control.

"What does this mean?" Castle asks, sliding a little closer to her, fingering one of her short sleeves.

"It means you sprang this on me at the last minute and I didn't have time to go buy a new dress," she replies, the corners of her mouth twitching now. Castle lifts his eyes from her cleavage to meet her gaze.

"You're teasing me," he says, astonished. "That's so mean." He leans in toward her mouth, but she quickly brings a hand up and pushes him away.

"No making out in the car, Castle. Hands to yourself."

He sits and just blinks at her for a long moment, completely flummoxed. "You're serious."

"Of course I'm serious. We're on the job, and besides, I don't want you messing up my hair."

"I can-" he begins, but she just shakes her head.

"No."

"You are really the cruelest woman alive," he exclaims, but he sounds more awestruck than upset. Impulsively, he seizes her hand and brings it to his mouth.

"Castle! What are you doing?" she gasps as he presses his lips to the back of her hand.

"Turnabout is fair play," he mutters, turning her hand over and putting his open mouth on her palm. Heat gathers low in her belly, quickening her breath, but she won't squirm. She sits still.

"Behave yourself," she orders, keeping her voice steady.

"Why start now?" he smirks. Beckett rolls her eyes and takes her hand back.

" _Working,_ Castle."

"Oh, for-" but they're pulling up to the Waldorf and her attention is caught by the double row of paparazzi lining the red carpet at the entrance.

"Whoa," she mutters, feeling a trickle of nervousness creep up her spine.

"Come on, you can handle this," Castle reassures her. "Just think of them all as suspects."

She smiles a little. That helps, actually. And they _are_ all suspects, when you get down to it. Okay. She can do this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading. Updates may be delayed this weekend, so please bear with me -- the final few chapters are well under way.
> 
> Today I have also posted a small piece of Halloween fluff that you might enjoy. It's on my profile under the uninspired title "The Costume." Check it out if you feel so inclined.


	19. Arrival

Castle gets out of the car first and offers Beckett his hand. She allows him to tuck her hand into the crook of his elbow and they run the gauntlet, smiling. His fake smile is a lot more polished than hers.

Just at the doorway, Ryan and Esposito are standing side-by-side watching them approach.

"Nice dress," Ryan comments, wearing that innocent expression of his.

"Yeah, what there is of it," snarks Esposito, going in as usual for the more blatant sarcasm.

"I'd let you borrow it, Esposito, but you stretched out the last one," she shoots back, and hears Castle snickering very quietly under his breath.

Then they're inside the very swanky ballroom, being greeted enthusiastically by -- holy shit, the mayor. Castle grins his most photogenic grin while exchanging man-hugs, handshakes, and greetings with the boss, and then turns to introduce Beckett.

"Rick, she's even prettier than you said," and the mayor turns away to glad-hand someone else, leaving Beckett to glare at Castle.

"You talk about me to 'Bob'?"

He simply smirks and asks if she wants a drink. Oh god, does she ever, but she's on duty, so, water. She sighs.

Castle is completely in his element, unlike Beckett, so she's a bit disgruntled when he abandons her to get the drinks and schmooze with the charity's head of development. A chatty party-goer soon engages Beckett in conversation and she listens in amazement as the woman tells her how popular Castle is as a a potential mate among the 'girls' of high society.

"Rich and handsome," the other woman sighs. "We call him the White Whale."

She melts away into the crowd, leaving Beckett to meditate briefly on the fact that most of those women have no idea just how apt the nickname really is.

The thought makes her blush and bite her lip, quickly calling up Esposito on her earpiece to distract herself. She makes her way through the crowd, alert for any sign of the man in their sketch, but she doesn't see anyone suspicious, and Esposito reports no luck either.

Castle reappears, pulling her onto the dance floor, claiming it's the only place they can safely talk. Of course, being able to touch her is probably just a happy added bonus from his perspective. Okay, and from hers too -- although being wrapped in his arms like this is bringing back a forceful rush of memory: of another dance floor long ago, this same dress, this same man. Maybe even this same woman.

He's unnerved, apparently, by how well the charity's staff know him. Beckett tells herself she isn't going to feed his ego, but somehow it pops out anyway: "Did you know they call you the White Whale?"

"The White Whale?" he repeats, his eyebrows rising. "Not Moby-"

"No," she interrupts firmly, trying to ignore the way his hands move lower, pulling her tighter against him for a moment, until he apparently realizes that he's skirting the boundaries of propriety and lets up.

Suddenly Castle is in an intense low-voiced argument with an older man, which has Beckett completely confused, and then there's Martha in the spotlight, kicking off the charity auction. Oh. So this must be why Castle didn't want his mother finding out where the party would be. How on earth did she get in without a ticket?

Martha is auctioning off a book, and ... an evening in Castle's company. His fake smile is plastered on, but Beckett can see the horror in his eyes as the bidding begins.

"Look, I have money," he whispers to her frantically. "Anything you pay, I'll pay you back."

"Oh, not a chance in hell, Castle," she grins. This is far too much fun. Anyway, _she_ doesn't have to pay for the pleasure of his company.

But as the auction proceeds, Castle suddenly brings her attention to the guy in the corner -- the donor development woman's boyfriend -- taking pictures of the guests and their jewelry. Within minutes they've got the guy ID'd and arrested.

"Where was the badge?" Castle asks in amazement as the boys lead Paul Reynolds away. Beckett keeps her poker face on.

"Don't ask."

Back at the precinct, she ducks into the restroom to change into the spare clothes she keeps there for emergencies. When she comes out, the boys have a print-out of Reynolds' rap sheet, and Castle is very disappointed to see her in regular clothes.

"What happened to the dress?" he pouts, and she lets her lips curve up a little, throwing Castle a quick heated glance fueled by how delicious he looks in his suspenders and partially unbuttoned tuxedo shirt.

"You didn't think I was gonna interrogate him in it, did you?"

Castle and both of the boys look her up and down. "We were kinda hoping...."

She gives all three of them the death glare and strides off to interrogation.

It doesn't take long for Paul Reynolds to crack and spill the whole story about the hardened criminal he met in prison, who strong-armed him into helping with the robberies. It takes hardly longer for him to give up the guy's name and location, but by the time Beckett gets a warrant, dawn is breaking. She and Ryan, Esposito, and Castle are yawning at their desks, but when the warrant comes in they're all energized. A hastily slurped cup of coffee each, and they're off.

Outside the suspect's apartment building, Beckett pauses to lecture Castle, one more time, about staying in the car. She doesn't have much hope that he'll listen, but she has to try -- for Esposito and Ryan's sake, if nothing else.

Surprisingly, though, he seems to be obeying this time. Maybe he's just tired.

But then the suspect gets away while she and the boys are in his apartment, and he locks a gate in their faces. They have to backtrack around the other side of the building, and when they finally come around the front, they find Castle grappling with the suspect, rolling around on the ground. Beckett feels a sharp stab of fear and sprints toward them. As she approaches, the guy lands a punch square on Castle's face and then reaches for his gun, but she gets there first, pinning his hand down with her boot. She levels her gun on the guy's face.

"Go ahead. I need the practice."

Her heart is still racing, but Castle is fine. He doesn't seem to realize (thank goodness) how much she briefly freaked out when she thought he was in danger; he's mostly concerned with making sure she knows that he didn't get out of the car voluntarily.

Satisfied that he doesn't need medical attention, she can go back to handling her suspect. Castle, of course, follows.

"That, uh, 'go ahead, I need the practice,' that was classic," he gushes. Beckett groans and rolls her eyes. This man will be the death of her, she just knows it.

* * *

Beckett drops Castle off at home and proceeds back to the precinct to book the suspect. That accomplished, she and Ryan and Esposito are taking down the murder board when Captain Montgomery calls in for an update and tells them all to go home.

"You all pulled an all-nighter, and now it's Sunday. Get some sleep," the captain orders. "You can fill me in and write your reports tomorrow."

There's no argument. Beckett retrieves her dress from her locker and goes home, where she enjoys a long shower.

But she can't fall into bed; there's something she needs to accomplish first. Several somethings.

She gets dressed again, leaving her mother's ring and her father's watch at home, and takes a taxi to the last victim's apartment building. She wants to be the one to tell the daughter that her mother's killer is behind bars. She also has something to return to the daughter -- a piece of jewelry with obvious sentimental value.

The young woman is grateful, but emotional closure doesn't come that easily. "How do you get over it?" she implores, and Beckett refrains from saying that she's been asking herself the same question for nearly ten years. Instead, she gives the other woman her card and encourages her to call, any time.

Then she catches another taxi and goes to Castle's loft.

On the way over, she thinks about the decisions that she has made, and reaches for the calm that she felt in the car with Castle earlier. She remembers how her heart leapt into her throat when she thought Castle was in danger. The feeling of being in control, unruffled, seeps under her skin again.

* * *

Martha lets her in, and Beckett gives her back the necklace with effusive thanks. "It was nothing, darling. The piece went so well with your dress, it was meant to be." Then Martha insists on dragging her into the kitchen where Castle is making breakfast.

"Oh, pretty butch, Castle," Beckett exclaims when she sees the black eye he has developed in the interim. He grins like a little kid.

"I know, right?" he says proudly, and invites her to stay for breakfast. She tries to refuse, but it's impossible with Martha pushing her onto a stool and Alexis pouring her a cup of coffee.

She sits, and drinks the coffee, and as she's beginning to describe the red carpet procession, Alexis interrupts to say "Wait, before you get started, you better tell dad if you don't want anything weird in your eggs."

"Weird?" Beckett looks over at Castle, who looks affronted.

"I have no idea what you mean, daughter. My breakfast offerings are as prosaic as they come."

"Dad."

"Nothing weird," Beckett puts in quickly. Castle pouts a little.

"Just spinach and cheese, then?" he suggests, and she agrees.

She spends a pleasant fifteen minutes chatting about the previous evening's events. It feels nice, to be so welcomed by this odd little family. Castle's scrambled eggs are delicious and the coffee is just what she needs.

Then Alexis gets a call from a friend and rushes to grab her purse, give Castle a peck on the cheek, and dash out; Martha leaves soon after that, saying something about a class. Beckett and Castle are alone at last.

He's gathering up the dirty dishes and refilling her coffee cup when she says quietly, looking down at the countertop, "My mom loved your books."

Castle goes still. 

"You were right," Beckett continues, "when you said that I didn't recognize you at the wedding. I thought you looked familiar, but I didn't know." She glances up quickly, sees him registering the fact that she has said 'I' rather than 'that girl.' She has to look down again before she can see the emotions that might come across his face.

"After the wedding," she goes on, "I went to see my dad and found the books on mom's shelf. She kept trying to get me to read them, but I was always too busy. I must have seen your picture on the back a million times but it didn't click until then."

Moving quietly, Castle comes around the kitchen island and slides onto the stool next to hers, his eyes never leaving her. She keeps her gaze down, on her hands now.

"I took the books and read them all. It made me ... it made me feel closer to mom again. Just to hold a book in my hands that she had held in her hands. Some of them had notes she had written to herself, grocery lists and stuff. It was like the books formed a new connection between us. I felt connected to her again, even though she was gone." Tears slide down her cheeks and she lets them fall unheeded.

"I guess it's weird," she continues softly, "but it helped me start to heal. Reading the books that she had loved ... showed me that I could think about her and be sad but also enjoy the memories. It was my first step toward starting to actually deal with my feelings, instead of just trying to bury them with ... unhealthy behavior." She takes a deep breath. "So that's why I went to the book signing that day. I didn't think you'd remember me," she adds, a little embarrassed, sneaking a look over at Castle's face.

The way he's looking at her, full of sympathy and amazement and adoration, takes her breath away. She has to avert her eyes again.

"Of course I remembered you," he says softly. "You're unforgettable."

She shakes herself a little, not knowing how to respond to that. "Anyway, that's why I went," she says again. "I felt like I needed to thank you, for the books, for bringing me that connection."

"And I just took the opportunity to proposition you again," he sighs, shaking his head. "What an arrogant son-of-a-"

"No," she interrupts quickly, "that was - you weren't - I mean, I could have walked away. Ignored your note and just gone home. I didn't want to."

"Kate," he says, low. She drags her eyes back up to his face again. His eyes are hooded now, holding back. Trying to protect her?

"Thank you for telling me," he says.

Beckett takes another deep breath. She feels empty, light. Unburdened. It's a very strange feeling.

Castle reaches over and runs his thumb lightly over her cheeks, brushing away the half-drying tears. The feathery touch sends goosebumps down her neck. Then he leans forward and softly kisses the wet spots on her cheeks, first one, then the other. His breath whispers across her face and she takes in his scent, coffee and aftershave and Castle.

His lips are so close to hers, hovering, waiting, wondering.

She turns her face ever so slightly, just enough to bring their mouths together.

The kiss starts out gentle, but she's sure now; she knows. So she presses into him, sliding off her stool to stand between his knees and push her whole body against his, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her tongue stroking over his lips and seeking entrance. He opens for her, his hands coming up around her, warm on her back. She feels like she could drown in the delicious wet heat of his mouth.

"Castle," she whispers against his lips, slipping her hands under his open button-down shirt, finding the bare skin of his shoulders warm under her fingertips.

"Yeah?" he breathes back, chasing her mouth for another deep but quick kiss before she pulls it away. She dips down and presses her lips to his chest right above the low neckline of his sleeveless t-shirt. He hisses, his hands clenching in the leather of her jacket.

"You got a bedroom in this place?" she asks against his chest, her hands dropping down to the bottom of the t-shirt, sliding underneath, skimming over his stomach, feeling how the muscles ripple against her fingers. She lifts her head to find him staring down at her, a little glazed.

"You're sure?" he manages, and she presses her hips into his, feeling the hard bulge in his jeans. He gulps. Desire rushes through her, fiery and powerful, leaving her dizzy.

"Bedroom. Now," she orders breathlessly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in posting, and for leaving you hanging here. I hope you will find it worth the wait. The last few chapters are proving slow to come together, but I hope to have everything in line soon. Thanks again for reading and commenting -- I really appreciate all of it!


	20. Culmination

Castle tugs Beckett toward the study, pushing her jacket down her shoulders, letting it drop on the floor, his button-down shirt following. Their mouths chase and catch at each other hungrily, messily as they stumble through the study door and across to the other door in the opposite wall.

"Off," Kate demands, yanking at the bottom of Castle's plain white t-shirt, and he pauses to pull it over his head, then pulls her against him again, his big hands gripping her ass now, hot through the denim of her jeans. She groans into his mouth and slides her hands greedily across the expanse of his bare chest, letting her fingernails catch on his nipples as they pass by.

"This isn't fair," Castle pants as he opens the bedroom door. "That's twice now I didn't get to take that green dress off you. I feel cheated." He pulls her t-shirt up and off, presses her against the door frame, bending down to run his tongue teasingly along the border of her bra.

"Ohh," she moans, "well, maybe next time."

He pauses, lifts his head to look at her, blinking.

"Next time?"

Kate bites her lip, smiles a little. "Well ... do you think once is going to be enough?"

"Oh god. Never." He seizes her upper arms and pulls her toward the bed. "Never going to be enough." He sits heavily on the end of the bed, drawing her between his thighs, bending his head back down to her chest. His hands are behind her, working the clasp of the bra. It falls away and she moans again as his warm hand envelops one breast, his mouth teasing at the other. She runs her hands over his shoulders and upper back. She's trembling with desire and the incredible pleasure of being with him like this, finally, again.

"Rick," she begs, and he shivers against her, dragging his tongue over her nipple. The cool air on her wet flesh makes her shiver also.

"Say my name again," he growls urgently, nipping at the curve of her breast, pushing her jeans down her hips. "Say it."

"Rick," she says again, and then can only gasp when he whirls her around and presses her back down onto the bed. He takes a moment to pull off her shoes and jeans, then slides quickly up to lie next to her, watching her face as his hand wanders across her stomach and caresses the tops of her thighs.

Arching up at him, she whines wordlessly and lets her hand coast across his chest and down, finding the button of his jeans and popping it open. He groans and leans down to kiss her again, their tongues sliding sloppily against each other.

"Oh god, Kate," he says into her mouth, "I want to - I want - I was going to take it slow."

"I-I know," she stammers, "but later - just please - I need you now." She can't remember ever wanting a man so desperately, so immediately. She has him in hand now, heavy and hot, and she can feel his body trembling beside her with the effort of holding control. His fingers slip inside her underwear and stroke her, drawing another whine from her throat and a helpless bucking of her hips.

"Yes," he says blurrily, and withdraws, twisting away to fumble open a drawer on the nightstand and pull out a condom. She hurries to peel off her soaked underwear while he's shucking his jeans and boxers, and then the condom is on and he rolls over to kneel between her legs, and pauses.

"Do you want to be on top?" he asks, but she reaches for him, draws him down between her wide-spread thighs.

"Just like this. Perfect. Please," she pants, and tugs at his hips, and he slips inside, just a little, and they both moan. He lowers himself, leaning on his elbows over her, and she lifts her knees around his waist and digs her fingers into his back and urges him on, whimpering. 

His lips graze her forehead. "Never get enough of you," he whispers, and she shudders deeply, pushing her hips up at him.

He thrusts, and again, and again, and fills her, and it's been so long, the tight stretching pain feels so good, and she cries out and shatters under him, pulling him over the edge with her.

After a brief moment of panting stillness, he rolls to the side, disposes of the condom, and gathers her in against him with her head pillowed on his chest, right over his heart. The twin sounds of their harsh breaths mingle in the quiet air. Her body is buzzing with pleasure, deliciously loose.

She squeezes her eyes shut, sweat cooling on her skin, and tries to stay calm. What now? What happens next? 

Castle breathes slowly, deeply, and his voice rumbles against her cheek. "Don't panic," he says softly. She feels his hand lightly stroking her shoulder, soothing.

"Not panicking," she mumbles, trying to slow her breathing.

"Yes you are," he answers calmly. "You're scared that I'll lose interest now that you've told me the whole story." He pauses. "Or are you more scared that I won't?"

She winces, her chest tightening briefly. How does he know? She's scared of so many things. 

But once was definitely not enough. And she's only here because she wants to be. Slowly she feels her tension easing as she reminds herself of the choices she's made. Telling him about her mom and the books was right. And this, this is right too.

"Not scared of this," she says, tilting her head back to meet his eyes, letting him see her heat, her passion that's nowhere near satisfied. "Not done with this yet."

She feels his breath catch. "Me either," he says fervently. "But -- oh crap, do you have to get back to work?"

She shakes her head, her hair whispering across his collarbone. "Nope. It's Sunday, and we were up all night. Don't have to be back till tomorrow morning."

"Oh," Castle says, and then, lower, huskier, " _Oh._ " She shivers a little at all the implications of that one little syllable. "So, you have the whole day, and nothing to do?" he adds, still holding her eyes.

"I didn't say that," she replies. "I have plenty to do." His face falls a little, but then she lets her lips curve upward in a wicked smile. "Starting with this." And she goes sliding down the bed, dragging her tongue over the nipple nearest her, drawing a gasp from his throat. She slides farther down, her mouth painting a wet trail across his ribs and stomach.

"Oh god," he groans, "oh, Kate," and she's not in the mood for teasing right now so she closes her mouth around him, just like that, her hand wrapping around the bottom of the shaft. He gasps again, louder. He's only half-hard but swelling quickly between her fingers as her tongue swirls around the sensitive tip. She sucks and licks and twists her hand until he's writhing on the bed, his hands clutching at the sheet, a string of four-letter words escaping his mouth.

But she stops before it's too late, smirking at his deep groan of dismay when she lifts her mouth off him. She leans over to get another condom and rolls it into place. When she throws a leg over his hips and straddles him he stares hungrily up at her, his eyes almost black with desire. The depth of feeling in his gaze startles her, sends jolts of electricity down her spine.

"God, you're gorgeous," he growls. His hands come up to cup her breasts as she lowers herself onto him, taking him inside, groaning deep in her throat at how good it feels. She's so wet and he's so hard and thick, stretching her tightly, finding every sensitive spot inside her. She leans forward, bracing her hands on his chest, swiveling her hips. Her eyes drift shut as she gives herself over to it.

"You're extraordinary," she hears him say, "you feel so good," and his hand slips between them, his fingers somehow finding the perfect spot. She moves faster, sliding up and down on him, rubbing herself against his fingers with each stroke until they both fall over the edge again.

She collapses on the bed next to him, feeling limp and drained. It feels natural just to curve her body against his side, lay her head on his shoulder again, and relax.

They both doze off then, exhausted. Kate wakes a while later when Castle sits up, and she sees him rubbing his eyes, looking around, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"Wha' time's it?" she mumbles fuzzily, and he turns to smile at her, drawing the bedclothes up over her naked body.

"Don't go anywhere. I'll be right back," he murmurs, and by the time he has pulled his boxers back on she's asleep again.

He shakes her awake a little later, gently, calling her name. She pushes up on her elbows and sees that he has brought in a tray from the kitchen, bearing sandwiches and two bottles of water. Blinking cobwebs from her brain, she asks, "Is it lunchtime?"

"Past," he replies, nodding toward the alarm clock on the nightstand; it's nearly 1:30, in fact. She blinks some more, surprised. She can't remember the last time she slept that late. Then again, she can't remember the last time she pulled an all-nighter at work followed by an energetic bout of hot sex.

She sits up, letting the bed sheet fall from her bare breasts, and reaches for a sandwich. "Mm. This is good." She looks up and catches Castle staring. "Hey. Eyes up here, pal."

"Please, I can stare at your eyes any time," he jokes, but he pulls his gaze away and focuses on eating. Kate feels the corner of her mouth twitching upward.

"Aren't you worried about crumbs in the bed?" she asks, blatantly changing the subject. He grins and shakes his head.

"Nope. Life is too short to worry about that kind of thing. Anyway, I can always change the sheets."

"I guess that's true," she agrees, smiling to herself. The carefree attitude is so him. But, at the same time, his bedroom is neat and she somehow just knows that he's meticulous about little things like making the bed.

"Kate..."

She takes another bite and looks up, finds him ogling her chest again.

"Castle!"

"I was going to take it slow. I really was," he says earnestly, meeting her eyes. "I wanted ... I wanted you so much. I was going to make it last."

"Yeah." She bites her lip and looks away. "I know, but ... I couldn't wait." Her face is hot, thinking about how fast it was -- both times. But she can't really regret it; it was so good, just what she wanted. She shifts on the bed, feeling the pleasant ache between her thighs.

Castle puts his half-eaten sandwich down on the tray, still staring at her. She clears her throat and reaches for the water.

"Aren't, aren't you hungry any more, Castle?" The heated, predatory look in his eyes is making her stomach flutter. She opens the bottle and drinks, watching his breathing quicken as his eyes follow the movement of her throat.

"Oh yes, I'm still hungry," he rasps, whisking the tray aside. She barely has time to get the cap back onto the water bottle before he yanks the bedclothes off her and swings over to plant himself between her legs.

"Rick," she gasps as he places his hot, wet mouth on the inside of her knee. His tongue sweeps along her skin and he's moving higher, kissing and licking, his fingers on her other leg mimicking the motion of his mouth. He's talking into her skin as he goes, half-whispered words that she can't make out, but she feels them in the vibration of his mouth against her and they make her shudder.

She falls back on the bed, moaning and wriggling. By the time he reaches his goal she's writhing so hard he has to use both hands to pin her hips to the bed as his tongue scorches a path through her center. She grips his hair, looking down at him, noticing the red lines of scratches from her fingernails decorating his shoulders and back. The sight makes her flush all over with renewed heat.

Her moans fill the air as he explores her with lips and tongue, his blue eyes intent on her face, learning her. It doesn't take him long to bring her right up to the edge, and then he pauses -- watches her gasping and panting for breath for a long heated moment -- puts his mouth back on her and brings her over, screaming.

"Tastes so good," she dimly hears him say as she lies there feeling boneless. "Just as good as I remembered it." He sweeps his tongue around and across her one more time before withdrawing. She rolls her head to the side and sees him leaning over to retrieve his sandwich.

"Ohh," she sighs, suddenly hungry again. She manages to sit up, unsteadily, and find the remnants of her own sandwich. Castle is watching her with a self-satisfied smirk. "Shut up."

His grin widens. "I didn't say anything. But if I did, it would be how incredible you look in my bed, screaming my name." He passes her the water and she drinks deeply, embarrassed at how raw her throat feels. Did she really scream his name?

Castle's phone buzzes and he picks it up to glance at the screen. "Ah. Alexis will be home soon." He looks at her uncertainly. "If you don't want to get into things...." His face is open, apologetic, and she gets it. She thinks that Alexis likes her well enough, but it would be awkward.

"I should get home anyway," she says. "But I need to clean up. Can I use your shower?"

"Can I join you this time?" he asks insinuatingly, running a finger along her hip. She smiles a little and bites her lower lip.

"Is it big enough for two?"

It is. In fact, his shower is ridiculously enormous. It's certainly big enough for the two of them to wash each other's backs, and fronts.

It's also big enough for him to turn her around and bend her slightly forward at the waist, bracing her hands on the slippery tile wall, the warm water cascading down their bodies as he nudges her feet farther apart and slides into her from behind. She cries out as the new position stimulates her in all new ways, especially when he presses himself against her back and brings his hands around, one to cup and fondle her breasts, the other slipping down between her thighs to rub her, hard, as he thrusts inside her. 

When she comes, he has to use those same hands to hold her up as her knees turn to jelly. He folds one strong arm around her stomach and uses the other to cover her hand on the tile, holding her in place while he thrusts again, raggedly, once, twice, and then he comes too, groaning into the back of her neck.

Afterward, they're toweling off when Castle suddenly gasps and turns a little pale, staring at her across the huge bathroom.

"Beckett, oh shit, I forgot the condom that time." His eyes are wide.

She just shrugs. "Hormonal implant."

"Oh." He sags a little, relieved. "Oh, um, that's good. And I'm clean."

"I figured." He's still puzzling over that while she wraps the towel around her and goes back to the bedroom to gather up her clothing, which is all over the floor. She grins a little, thinking about how that happened. 

Her legs are still a little shaky; she sits on the edge of the bed to put on her bra and shirt.

Castle comes out of the bathroom as she's fastening her jeans, and he pulls her against him for another long kiss. She's fully dressed and he's only wearing boxers, heating her up all over again with his warm bare skin against her body. She pulls away, reluctantly.

"Alexis," she reminds him, and he drops his hands quickly.

"Ugh, Beckett, that's just mean."

She quirks a small smile at him, pushing her feet into her shoes, going out to the study. She surveys his desk and finds a pen and a pad of sticky notes.

"What are you doing?" he asks, following her, pulling on a t-shirt.

She pulls off the top sheet from the pad, and sticks it to the shirt on his chest. She's written her address on it.

"Come over later," she says, a little timidly, and almost loses her nerve, adding, "...if you want."

He blinks. "If I want? Of course I-" He pauses, looks at her with a small frown. "We're going to have to talk, Kate."

She grimaces. "I guess."

He removes the sticky note from his shirt and looks at it. "How's eight o'clock? I'll bring food."

"Sure." She goes out to the living room and finds her jacket on the floor. Castle takes it and helps her into it, his fingers brushing the back of her neck and lingering. 

She can't resist turning in to him for one more kiss, which becomes two, which becomes their bodies pressed together and seeking hands and twisting tongues and deep moans, and she has to pull away before it's too late.


	21. Aftershocks

When Beckett gets into a taxi to go home, she discovers that Lanie has already called her cell phone several times today. She bites her lip as she ponders what to tell her friend. Lanie can be trusted to keep a secret, but Kate just isn't sure whether she's ready for anyone to know about ... whatever this is.

She waffles over it the whole way home, and still hasn't decided what to do by the time she's back in her apartment looking through yesterday's mail. All but one envelope ends up in the recycle bin.

She puts in a load of laundry, procrastinating, and finally decides to avoid Lanie just a little bit longer. Instead, she calls her dad.

"Hi, Katie."

"Hi, Dad. Hope I didn't interrupt anything." She knows that Jim likes to keep busy on the weekends.

"Nope, just puttering around in the garden. What's up?"

Kate takes a deep breath. "Um, Dad, remember those books Mom used to love? The murder mysteries?"

"Sure, you took them all at some point, didn't you?"

"Yeah, and I never really told you why."

She plunges in and tells her dad all about it. Not about the sex, of course, but she tells him about meeting Castle at the wedding all those years ago, reading the books and going to the book signing, and then about the Tisdale case, the murders staged like Castle's books. She tells her dad about Castle helping with that investigation and then pulling strings to get permission to shadow her for his next book.

"A whole book based on you? That's amazing, Katie," Jim says. "I know your mom thought very highly of him as a writer."

"Yeah, she was a big fan." She smiles a little, and tells her dad about some of Castle's more annoying traits, how frustrated she was at first with his interference and his jokes and his attitude. Jim chuckles through it all.

"It sounds like you've gotten to know him pretty well," he says at last, and she suddenly stops smiling and starts fidgeting. She knows that tone. That's her dad's _I know you aren't telling me everything_ tone.

"I guess so," she says cautiously.

"So," Jim goes on, "you like this guy now, huh?"

" _Dad._ "

"Oh, come on, Katie. You didn't call me up out of the blue on a Sunday just to tell me about some guy you've been 'working' with."

She slumps down on the couch, blushing, chewing on her lip.

"Um, it's complicated."

"It always is with you," he says affectionately. "So, am I going to meet this guy?" She blushes some more, and squirms.

"I don't ... I don't think we're there yet, Dad." _I don't know if we'll ever be,_ she thinks.

"Okay, well, you'll tell me when you're ready."

Jim allows her to change the subject, and they chat for a while about nothing much. She feels better when she hangs up, as she always does these days after talking to her dad.

She straightens up the place a bit, groaning softly at the soreness in her muscles. She could blame the chase last night, running after the suspect, but of course the real reason she's so stiff and achy is Castle. Her body flushes pleasurably at the memories of the things they did today ... the things she is pretty sure they're going to do again tonight. Oh god, she wants to do it all again and more.

She changes into workout clothes and does some light yoga in the living room, stretching out her muscles. She has a feeling she's going to appreciate it later. And the yoga enables her to go into a meditative state, shutting out her busy thoughts for a little while.

She's in the kitchen re-hydrating, feeling all the thoughts start to crowd back in, when Lanie calls again.

"Hey, Lanie."

"Kate! Girl, I called you a dozen times."

"Nah, just four," she says with a little smile.

"Okay," she can almost see Lanie's eyes narrowing at her, "where were you? Tell me you were with him."

"I was with him," she says obediently, plopping down on the couch again. There's a brief, surprised silence.

"Really?"

"Yeah," she grins, enjoying Lanie's reaction, "really."

"Well, don't leave me in suspense! Details, woman."

"Uh, well, we went to the charity event and caught our suspect," she offers, still grinning, and then laughing out loud when she hears Lanie's exasperated huff.

"Kate Beckett," her friend says warningly.

"Okay, but come on, Lanie, I'm not giving you a blow-by-blow," she declares, still smiling.

"Mm-hmm, but it was good, right?"

"Yeah," she says softly. "It was good. I just ... I'm not sure what happens next."

"Well, you know, no one ever is, honey."

"I guess." She sighs. "Listen, Lanie, can you not ... I mean, the guys at work..."

"Oh, don't worry about me, girlfriend, my lips are sealed. Your business is your business." A pause, and a tsking sound. "But I'mma need some more dirt, after you get over your nerves."

A surprised laugh bursts out of Kate. "Um, okay? I don't know when that'll be, though." She's pretty much always a bundle of nerves where Castle is concerned.

"I can wait." She can hear Lanie's smile. "I got a feeling this thing is gonna be going on for a while."

After they hang up, Beckett finishes the housework and tackles some papers on her desk, paying bills, filing receipts, and so forth. It's all busywork to keep her brain occupied, but it doesn't work.

She slept with Castle. She had _sex_ with Castle. Again. And he's going to come over, and she knows what she wants to do, and she knows he'll want it too, but all of her doubts and insecurities and fears are crashing down around her all over again.

He'll want to talk, first, and they should. But she doesn't know what to say.

 _Still trying to pretend it's just about sex?_ she thinks. Dr. Nelson wouldn't phrase it quite so bitingly, but she would say something tactful that amounted to the same thing. 

_What else would it be?_ she imagines herself replying, defensively, but Dr. Nelson wouldn't take that crap from her, of course.

 _Don't dodge the question, Kate,_ she would say sternly. _Say what you feel._

Suddenly Beckett doesn't want to play this mental game any more. It's getting perilously close to forcing her to admit things she just can't confront yet.

Start with what she doesn't want, then. She knows that she doesn't want Castle to stop shadowing her. She's dying to read the book that he's writing based on her, and, if she's honest with herself, she has to admit that she likes solving cases with him. For the first time since becoming a cop, she sees the appeal of working with a partner. He challenges her mind, and he makes it fun, and he can be serious when it counts.

She doesn't want to stop having sex with him, either. Of that she's very sure. Just thinking about it makes her whole body tingle with anticipation, and even though they've had more sex today than she has had for ages, she's already aching for more.

But, continuing down the list of things she doesn't want, she can't exactly picture herself marching into the precinct tomorrow morning and announcing to Captain Montgomery and her fellow detectives that she and Castle are now, what, an item? In fact, the mere thought makes her chest constrict with the old, familiar fears that have kept her away from him for so long.

On the other hand, they can't go on forever, solving cases together and having sex and keeping it a secret. Can they?

So the list of things she doesn't want is getting her no closer to any useful answers. 

Turning all of these questions over and over in her mind without any success, she suddenly notices that it's almost 8:00. She goes into the bedroom and takes off her workout clothes. Catching a glimpse of her naked body in the mirror, she notices more reminders of the morning: red marks on her breasts and neck, finger-shaped bruises on her legs and hips. Her gaze flickers up to her face and she's a little surprised to see herself smiling, a secretive Mona Lisa sort of smile.

She opens the closet. Nervousness flutters in her belly as she stands there naked, looking at the dress. She knows perfectly well what will happen if she puts it on.

 _We're going to have to talk,_ he said, and she knows he's right. They need to talk, even if she doesn't want to.

Well, there's no reason they can't do both. Talk, and ... other things.

She opens her lingerie drawer and reaches to the back, behind the everyday stuff.

A little while later, the doorbell rings. She takes a deep breath. She's still a little wobbly with nerves, but she's also excited. Oh god, she really is like a teenager all over again.

She opens the door. "Hey, Castle."

He stands there holding a large paper bag and a bottle of wine, and for the second time in two days the green dress makes his jaw drop. She feels the corner of her mouth lifting.

"Cat got your tongue?" she asks lightly. Oh god, his tongue. Bad choice of words. She bites the inside of her cheek, takes the wine from him with one hand, and uses the other to tug him over the threshold so she can close the door.

He doesn't shove her up against the wall and rip the dress off and slam into her with a single thrust, but she can see in his eyes that he wants to. Instead, he clears his throat and says, "I hope you like Thai."

"Ooh, I love Thai," she says, going over to the kitchen to get wine glasses. "You can put it on the table." She's already set the small table with two places.

Castle looks around as he makes his way to the table. "Nice place." If he notices his books lined up on the shelf, surrounded by a modest collection of other mysteries, he doesn't comment on it.

"Thanks." She brings the wine and glasses to the table. As she sets them down, she feels his hot gaze on her. He's restraining himself again and she knows that she should too, so she doesn't touch him, but meets his eyes and lets him see that she feels the same way.

They sit opposite each other, still exchanging heated looks, and he opens the wine while she opens the bag of food. Passing the boxes back and forth occupies them and takes the dangerous edge off the atmosphere -- at least for the time being -- and they eat for a few moments in comfortable silence.

"How was your afternoon?" Castle asks eventually, carefully. She smiles a little.

"Quiet. Just housework and stuff. Talked to my dad." She should probably tell him that Lanie knows, but that can wait. "What about you?"

"Oh, um, well, Alexis got home just a few minutes after you left," at which they exchange a mutually embarrassed look, "so we played some laser tag, ate some ice cream, talked about boys."

"Sounds nice," Kate comments with a smile. The thought of Castle talking boys and hair and clothes with his teenage daughter is so endearing. But wait - "Ice cream? So you've already had your dessert, Castle?"

He looks straight at her with that potent, heated expression of his. "Oh, Kate. You know I haven't."

She shivers, already throbbing and growing damper by the second. She reaches blindly for her wine glass and takes a slow sip.

Castle carefully reins himself in again, and says, "But, uh, we should talk."

"Yeah..." She applies herself to the food again, avoiding his eyes.

"Beckett? Do you want me to stop shadowing you?"

She looks up at that, surprised. "What? But ... your book."

He nods, lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug. "I could probably finish it at this point. Of course, I already have enough storyline ideas for at least two or three more books, but ... I don't have to write them." He looks a little uncertain. "I mean, if you didn't ... want me around."

She sits back in her chair. "And, uh, what if I did? Want you around?"

His face brightens. "Well, then I guess I would ... stick around."

Beckett bites her lip, looking at him. She sees his eyes darken again, and when he speaks, he's back to that low rough voice that she can't help responding to. Goosebumps start to form along her skin.

"You're kind of overdressed for an evening at home with takeout, Beckett."

"Yeah," she agrees with a deliberately casual shrug, "well, what are you gonna do about it, Castle?"

His breathing speeds up and she can see that he's almost reached the edge of his control. She's not far from it herself either.

"Don't tease," he says, a little strangled. "We're supposed to be talking."

"Can we talk after?" she asks, a little desperately. She can't think, can't make her brain focus on anything except the nearness of Castle and the way his shoulders fill his t-shirt and the heat of his tongue and the way he feels inside her.

"After we eat?" he says, a little smile playing around the corners of his mouth, and she groans.

"Now who's teasing?" and she gets up, rounds the table, practically falls into his lap. Their mouths are fused immediately and they both groan. Kate wriggles in closer and feels the weight of him against her hip. His arm is around her back, his other hand heavy on her knee, hot with promise. Her tongue finds his and they slide slickly against each other. She digs her fingers into his hair and he grunts low in his chest.

"What you do to me," he gasps against her lips, and she shudders as his thumb starts circling on the tender skin inside her knee.

"Rick," she sighs, and the sound of his name snaps the last thread of his control. He stands her up and rises himself, his lips never leaving hers, tugging her tight against his body as soon as they're both on their feet.

"Which way?" he pants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks once again for reading and commenting. I really appreciate it all! The end is drawing near; after this chapter there will be two more, for a total of 23.


	22. Wish Fulfillment

Beckett pulls Castle into her bedroom, his hands all over her, stroking the silk of the dress and winding her up. His mouth is busy on hers, and she shoves her hands under his t-shirt, already whimpering with need.

"Not yet," he mutters when she brings one hand to the button of his jeans. "This time I'm making it last, Kate. I want it all."

She groans deep in her throat at the words, knowing that he's going to torture her, sweetly, and that it's all going to be worth it.

"Rick, oh god," she gasps, feeling his hands sliding up her legs, under the dress. She's already out of words and they're just getting started. He sits on the edge of her bed and pulls her against him.

"First I'm going to take this dress off you, finally," he says, and she shivers deliciously.

And he does. But not quickly. He takes his time, first pushing the hem of the dress up so he can run his hands around her thighs and behind, squeezing her ass, drawing his fingernails down the backs of her legs. Meanwhile he's mouthing his way along the neckline of the dress, kissing and sucking the tender skin all the way from one shoulder down into her cleavage, then back up to the other shoulder.

By this point she's panting and making formless incoherent noises of pleasure, gripping his shoulders just to keep herself upright. She isn't normally this passive in bed, but she senses that he wants to do this his way, and she gives herself over to it without a qualm.

Now he turns her around and kisses along the back of her neck, drawing the zipper of the dress down excruciatingly slowly, taking the time to kiss every inch of skin in the slowly widening vee of the back of the dress. He nips with his teeth once or twice, lightly, just enough to make her jerk and gasp. He holds her against him and she can feel the hard bulge in his jeans as she rubs her ass into his lap, whining softly at the feel of him.

At last he turns her back around and slowly draws the sleeves down her arms, and finally the dress drops away to pool on the floor around her feet.

He sits back and takes her in, admiring the delicate scraps of black satin and lace covering her breasts and crotch. "Gorgeous," he breathes, "amazing," and he pulls her forward again and kisses her mouth slowly, slowly, holding her back when she tries to reach for him.

Then he strips off the bra and panties, lays her down on the bed, and works his way over her whole body, mapping her with lips and tongue and hands, so slowly that she thinks she might combust. She's floating in a hazy cloud of pleasure, hardly aware of the noises she's making or the words he's pressing into her skin. Her juices are running like a river and when he finally slips two fingers inside her and rubs with his thumb in just the perfect spot, she arches up off the bed, eyes closed, mouth open although she has no breath left for screaming. She feels like she's imploding in slow motion as the climax flows over her in waves.

She's still drifting in the fog when she hears Castle murmuring in her ear. "You're so incredible," he says. "I want to do that again every day," and she feels him nudging at her entrance, her eyes still closed, her body still quivering. She threads her arms around his neck and opens her legs wider for him and lets him slide in, enjoying the feeling of his heavy hot body pressing her down into the mattress. Her inner muscles flutter and clench around him, still recovering from the intense climax.

He's still talking, half-whispered words of praise and desire against her ear as he slides steadily in and out, and then not so steadily, and finally he stills and groans into her neck.

She floats back to herself slowly and finds that she's snuggled up to him again. Apparently he really likes to cuddle.

"Oh god," she sighs, "that was..." She doesn't have words.

"Yeah," he says, and she can hear the grin in his voice.

She feels her skin cooling and remembers reluctantly that they're supposed to be talking. Figuring this thing out. They probably shouldn't -- can't -- put it off much longer. He seems to be thinking the same thing.

"What is it that you want, Kate?" he asks quietly, his voice rumbling against her ear.

Well, that's the million-dollar question, isn't it? "I want everything to be simple," she sighs, and feels him chuckle softly.

"I wish I could give you that."

She lies still for a moment, blinking away sudden moisture from her eyes that she doesn't understand. Then she lifts her head to look at Castle's face, and asks softly, "Did you mean it? If I said I wanted you to stop shadowing me, you'd do it?"

His steady breathing falters, but he nods slowly. "If I thought you really meant it. If you weren't just saying it out of fear."

She thinks about what that might mean, and pulls away a little, propping herself up on one elbow on her bed, pulling the sheet up over her. "What if ... what if Captain Montgomery found out about ... this," she says, uncomfortably, "and said we couldn't work together any more?"

Castle cocks his head curiously. "Do you think he would do that? I'm not an official NYPD employee, or even an official volunteer."

"I don't know," she says honestly. She thinks about it for a long moment. "Maybe not? He seems to like you for some reason." Her lips twitch teasingly.

He grins back. "He likes beating me at poker."

"What if I said I never wanted to see you again?" she blurts out, challenging, testing. "Stop shadowing me, don't call me, don't come here. If I wanted you out of my life completely."

Castle sucks in a sharp breath and looks pained, pulling back a little farther from her. "I wouldn't like that. I would hate it," he says, his voice shaky. "But I'm not going to force myself on -- on someone who truly doesn't want me around."

She leans over and presses her lips softly to his. "I was just asking," she says, low. "I didn't mean it. I do want you around." Around, and under, and above, and inside.... His eyes are still stormy so she kisses him again, trying to paint reassurance across his lips with hers, and his hand comes up to the back of her head to hold her there and draw out the kiss.

When they separate, he says, "But you're still scared, of going public. Of people finding out. Of so many things."

She pulls back and looks away, doesn't say anything, which of course is an answer in itself.

"Listen," he says after a moment, "nothing needs to change, for now. We're already pretty good at this pretending thing. So we keep pretending, and working together. And we can still ... see each other, at night, and on the weekends." He pauses, and adds, "I mean, if you want to."

"Really?" she says tentatively. "You'd do that?" Is that what she wants? She knows it couldn't last forever, but maybe it's a start.

"I would," he says firmly. "Because it's only temporary. Until you feel more comfortable, until you get past feeling scared of..." he pauses, and finishes slowly, "...all those things."

He's so confident that she'll get past it. She tries to feel angry at him for making assumptions, but she has to admit he's probably right. She needs time. It always takes too much time, with her.

"Okay," she says slowly, "if you really think you'll be able to keep your hands to yourself when we're working." She nibbles her lip slowly and gives him a coy look from under her lashes. He smirks and pulls her closer, tucking her in against him again with his arm around her shoulders.

"Don't worry, I'll behave. As long as I know that once you're off the clock I can do whatever I want."

"Whatever you want?" she repeats, putting an edge in her tone. "That's a little presumptuous."

"Have I mentioned how hot it is when you use ten-dollar words?"

She smiles against his chest and closes her eyes. She feels exhausted all of a sudden, worn out from the intense sex and the equally intense emotional conversation.

"Have you ever gone on one of those horse-drawn carriage rides through Central Park?" Castle asks suddenly, his fingers drawing lazy patterns along her shoulder and upper arm.

"Mm, no," she replies drowsily, "you want to?"

"Yeah," he says, so full of fervor that it brings her eyes fully open. "Yeah, I do."

She lifts her head from his chest to look into his eyes, which are locked on her, bright with promise. "Really?"

"And walks along the river, picnics in the park. Movies, the theater. I want to do all that with you, Kate," he says, almost pleading. "All the things people normally do _before_ having sex and falling in lo-"

He stops abruptly, his whole body tensing under her, his eyes widening. She's gone still as well, all the breath leaving her lungs.

"What?" she manages to say, almost inaudible.

"I'm sorry," he interjects quickly, closing his eyes as if in pain, his arm tightening around her shoulder almost by reflex. "I shouldn't have -- I don't-" But he stops himself again, and she feels his ribcage expand with the deep slow breath he takes in. He opens his eyes and looks at her again. "No, you know what, screw it. I'm in love with you, Kate Beckett, and I can't help it. Maybe I've been in love with you for nine years. You're the most remarkable ... frustrating ... challenging person I've ever met, and I love you."

She finds her shoulders hunching, her whole body curling almost imperceptibly inward, but she breathes and squeezes her eyes shut and realizes in a gut-twisting flash of insight that she already knew this. He has been showing her and telling her, in all his little ways, for quite a while now.

"It's okay," he says, very softly, almost sadly, "it's okay if you don't ... feel the same way. Just don't run away. Don't let me have fucked this up again."

She winces, thinking of how she fled from his hotel room all those years ago, after he allowed a little bit of emotion to show in his eyes. She thinks of him in the restaurant on their first date the other day, asking her what she was pretending to be, and how when she said _Fearless,_ he said _Me too._

She feels the tension in his body alongside hers, and her breath catches, thinking of how much he has tried to restrain himself from saying these things, just to avoid scaring her off. He shouldn't have to do that.

"The walk along the river sounds nice," she says carefully. It's the best she can do.

She feels him take in a shaky breath, his heart pounding under her ear. "Really?"

"Yeah," she says, and she means it. She can already picture them strolling along the Hudson River Greenway, chatting, laughing. She can see herself bumping Castle with her shoulder when he says something ridiculous. She sees him reaching for her hand, twining his fingers through hers, and she would let him do it, would smile at him even while she's still shaking her head over whatever dumb thing he just said. She blinks in surprise at the vision that has leapt into her head, fully formed. Where did that come from?

"Yeah," she says again, to cover her confusion. She feels his body relax slightly.

"Okay," he says, almost a whisper. "Okay." 

As if on cue, her stomach rumbles.

Castle laughs softly. "We didn't finish eating."

"No," she agrees, grinning too. "It's probably cold."

She sits up, hissing a little at the renewed soreness between her thighs, feeling their combined fluids seep out of her. She reaches for her robe.

"Shower with you?" Castle suggests hopefully, sitting up also. She purses her lips regretfully.

"Not everyone has a shower the size of an ancient Roman bathhouse, you know," she says, and he pouts a little, but when he sees her bathroom he has to agree. It just isn't big enough.

So they shower separately, get dressed, and go back to the kitchen, where they put the Thai food into the microwave to reheat. They sit and eat it, chatting about nothing much at all. The tension of the conversation has eased, but it feels right to stick to lighter topics now.

When the food is gone and the bottle of wine is empty, Castle grimaces, stretches, and reluctantly stands up. "I shouldn't leave Alexis alone much longer," he says apologetically, and Beckett nods understanding. She isn't sure she's ready for a sleepover yet anyway.

"Tomorrow, at the precinct?" she asks hesitantly, and his face breaks out into a smile.

"Tomorrow. Back to the pretending game."

"It's not a game," she mutters, suddenly feeling guilty, but he steps forward and wraps his arms around her in a tight, reassuring hug.

"I shouldn't have said that. It's not a game." He pulls back a little to look at her face. "But it doesn't have to be super-serious all the time either, does it?"

She allows herself a tiny smile. "I suppose not."

"Okay. Good. And now," he adds, dropping his voice low again, "since I'm not going to be able to do this for a whole day..." and he kisses her hard and deep, pulling her tightly against his body. She clutches his shoulders and returns the kiss with gusto. It takes quite a few minutes before they manage to disengage so he can leave.

Beckett clears away the takeout containers, washes the few dishes, changes the sheets on the bed, and climbs in. She falls asleep almost immediately and dreams of the Hudson River, sparkling as it flows past her feet.


	23. Progression

The next morning Beckett wakes up feeling well-rested, which is somewhat diminished when she gets out of bed and discovers just how sore and stiff her muscles are. She has to do some deep stretching and a little yoga before she can even get dressed.

But damn, was it ever worth it.

She arrives at the precinct at her usual time, responds in kind to some ribbing from Ryan and Esposito about her dress and the charity event, and gets to work on filling out the forms to process their suspect. The Sunday shift didn't do any of it, so the suspect is still in holding.

Castle breezes in a little while later, bringing coffee and bear claw as usual. Beckett has her cop armor on, although she's not sure it will hold; she thinks vaguely that maybe she needs a new, stronger emotional shield to help her keep composure. Castle armor.

"Good morning, all," he says with perfect cheer, setting the coffee and pastry on her desk. "I ditched the paper already. They had the nerve to omit us from page six."

"What, not even a nice shot of me and Javi handcuffing Reynolds?" Ryan asks, pretending to be offended. "The sorry state of journalism these days, eh?"

"Pathetic," Esposito comments, shaking his head.

"Gentlemen," Beckett says coolly, "when you've quite finished," but then Captain Montgomery arrives, looking for an update.

They give the captain a blow-by-blow of the weekend's events, starting with the reconnaissance at the charity ball, all the way through identifying, locating, and apprehending the suspect.

"It was real helpful the way Castle stopped the dude's fist with his face," Esposito smirks, and Castle turns his head to show Montgomery his black eye, already fading to green and yellow.

"Impressive," the captain comments. "So, your guy's still in holding?"

"I've just finished the release forms," Beckett says, and goes to submit the paperwork and supervise the suspect's transfer to prison. Along the way, she makes a quick stop downstairs.

When she gets back to Homicide, file folders in hand, the men are still sitting around chatting. "What is this, happy hour?" she asks, and then, in deference to Montgomery, "...sir."

"Castle was just inviting us all over to his place for a game of poker," Ryan says. "You in?"

"Really?" she replies, looking at Castle, who gives her a perfectly innocent smile. "Don't you already have a regular poker game with your mystery buddies?"

"Yeah, but that's my high-stakes, cutthroat game," he says. "This would be more casual, you know, between friends. Do you play poker, Beckett?"

"I suppose I could spare some time to take your money," she says, letting her lips curve slightly. Montgomery grins, pleased.

"I like your attitude, Beckett," the captain declares. "This guy has far too high an opinion of his card-shark skills. We need to take him down a peg."

"Can do, sir."

"Great," says Ryan, "so, when?"

"Tomorrow night?" Castle suggests. "My loft. Pizza and beer."

"Why not tonight? You need time to prepare to get your ass kicked?" Esposito puts in. Castle just grins.

"Nah, I've got something else to do tonight." He carefully doesn't look at Beckett.

The poker game thus scheduled for tomorrow, they all retreat back to their desks. Castle plops down into his usual chair next to Beckett's desk and watches her shuffling papers around.

"Not much going on this morning, huh?"

"No," she says, and lowers her voice, "but I have something for you."

He raises his eyebrows, but bites back whatever naughty remark came to mind. "Oh?" is all he says.

Beckett slides a file folder out from the bottom of her pile, and pushes it over toward him.

"What's this?" he asks slowly as he picks it up.

"I heard you know a guy. A forensic pathologist?" She looks down at her desk and takes a careful breath.

Castle opens the file, looks at the paperwork on the murder of Johanna Beckett. The photos, the autopsy report (with start and end times highlighted, less than an hour apart), the investigating officer's notes, everything: it's all there, a complete copy. He raises his eyebrows, looks back up at her. She breathes carefully, blinks slowly, reaching for her inner calm.

"Are you sure?" he asks very quietly. She sees that he recognizes everything that this means. She struggles to keep her voice even.

"Do it before I lose my nerve, Castle."

"Okay. Yeah," he says, swiftly closing the folder and standing up. "Uh, I'll be back later."

"I'll call you if we catch a murder."

He nods and departs.

Beckett gets up also, goes to the restroom, takes a moment to compose herself. She pulls her mother's engagement ring out from under her shirt and holds it in her fingers, watching it sparkle.

She takes a deep breath, drops the ring back into place against her heart, and gets back to work.

* * *

_**Two months later...** _

The wind plays with Kate's hair through the open driver's-side window of Castle's Ferrari as it whizzes up the highway headed northeast. Castle sits in the passenger seat, watching her.

 _You driving my Ferrari is like the hottest thing ever,_ he said earlier, and she narrowed her eyes and said _Maybe you should drive,_ but he insisted, _No no, I can control myself. Really. I promise._ And she does so love driving the Ferrari, especially out of the city like this, where she can open it up a bit.

"I love your new dress," he says, speaking loudly over the rush of the wind. "Herve Leger, right?"

"You're so metrosexual," she teases, flashing him a look from the corner of her eye. He smirks but doesn't respond to the jibe.

"You should wear that to the _Heat Wave_ book release party," he says.

"That's months away."

"Never hurts to plan ahead." He shifts a little in his seat, dropping into his silky bedroom voice. "I want you to wear that to the book party, with no underwear, so that all night I can look at you and know you're bare underneath it, and when I'm done mingling I can pull you into a quiet corner and-"

" _Castle_!"

"I like to plan ahead," he repeats, grinning -- but then he quiets, watching her for a few moments. "Are you okay?" he asks finally.

She doesn't answer immediately, but she reaches for the button that closes the window, shutting out the noise of the wind and road. "Why?"

"You've been on edge since the kidnapping case. And with Sorenson getting hurt, and what we've learned about your mom's murder..." He lets that sit in the air between them, not exactly a question.

She takes a breath. "You were right," she says slowly, and pauses in case he's going to gloat or make a smug remark. But he reads her mood and responds in kind.

"About what?" is all he says, gently encouraging.

"About me and Will being too similar for it to work. When we were together, I thought our similarities made us a good couple. It seemed to make sense, but really it didn't."

Castle waits a moment, and when she doesn't go on, he prompts, "What are you trying to say?"

"You don't have to be jealous of him," she says softly.

"I'm not." She shoots him another sideways look, narrow-eyed. "I'm _not_ ," he insists. "He's injured, in the hospital being a hero, and he made it pretty clear that he -- how he feels about you, and yet, here you are. With me."

"Yeah...." She breathes deeply again. "When we get back, on Monday, I'm going to talk to Captain Montgomery. Come clean about ... about us. Find out if he'll be on our side."

Castle takes in a deep, quick breath, surprised. "Are you sure?" he asks quietly, his voice a little rough with suppressed tension.

She throws him a quick sideways glance. "Yeah."

She doesn't quite know when she decided, but yes, she is sure. It was not long after they found out that Sorenson had been shot while transporting her witness. At some point, after the initial rush of horror and guilt, she found herself comparing her reaction to Will's injury with the fear she had felt when Castle got into that wrestling match with the home-invasion killer a few weeks earlier -- or the anxiety she felt when Castle volunteered to make the money drop during the kidnapping case. And it had nothing to do with the fact that Will is a trained and experienced law-enforcement officer whereas Castle is ... not. It wasn't about that at all; it was about her different feelings toward the two of them.

Kate Beckett has been running scared from her feelings for almost her whole adult life, but in those moments, with Will in the hospital and Castle solid beside her, she couldn't escape noticing and acknowledging how she felt.

It might take her a while yet to put it into words for him, but Castle knows her by now. She doesn't need to say the words for him. It's enough, for him, that she's ready to start telling people about them.

As if reading her mind, he leans toward her in the car and says softly, "Kate, I love you."

She purses her lips, her fingers tightening on the steering wheel. It's the first time he has said it since that day, the day when she pushed through her fear and told him the rest of their story. He's been holding back, all this time, not saying it again, although she knows he has wanted to.

He reaches over and puts his hand over hers. "You don't have to ... Just tell me that I can say it without making you run for the hills."

"We're in the hills now," she points out, her voice a little shaky. "This is Connecticut."

He smiles softly and lifts her hand off the steering wheel, bringing it to his lips. He kisses the back of her hand, slowly. She twists her wrist in his grasp and turns it into a caress, running her fingers over his cheek before bringing her hand back to the wheel. And he understands. That's all he needs.

"I think this is our exit," he says.

* * *

Shortly they're turning off a picturesque country road and into the wide driveway of an equally picturesque New England country estate. Kate unfolds her legs from the car -- slowly, because she knows Castle enjoys watching that -- and yields the keys to the valet.

"Gorgeous day for a wedding," Castle comments as she comes around the car, slipping her purse onto her shoulder. They proceed along the path around the house.

"Yes, beautiful," she murmurs, taking his arm.

The ceremony is set to take place outdoors, in a lavish tent set up in the middle of a field behind the estate. As they make their way down the marked path toward the tent, Beckett's old friend David comes rushing over to them, flushed with excitement and gushing with enthusiasm at seeing her. "Becks! I'm so thrilled you could come! You look fantastic, girl." They hug each other tightly.

"Thanks, David. And you look radiant, the blushing bride," she teases. "I want you to meet Rick," she adds, "Rick Castle, this is David."

"My pleasure, and congratulations," Castle says smoothly, shaking David's hand. David makes a show of looking him up and down, then nudges Beckett with a smirk.

"Girlfriend, you're just lucky I'm already taken."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Castle grins. "And I'd love to take you out for drinks sometime and hear all the juiciest stories about Kate's college days."

"Oh, not a chance in hell, studmuffin," David replies, grinning widely. "Anything I could tell you, she knows something just as bad about me."

"Insurance policy," Beckett puts in, nodding coolly.

"Oh well, can't blame a guy for trying," Castle shrugs, unruffled. "By the way, David, I understand that I owe you a big debt of gratitude."

"Oh, really? What'd I do?" David smiles.

"As I understand it," Castle says, "if you hadn't strong-armed Kate into being your beard at another wedding years ago, I never would have gotten to meet her."

David's eyes go wide. "Ohh! Becks, you didn't tell me this was ... that guy!" He cocks his head curiously. "But I thought you were never going to see him again."

"So did I," Beckett agrees, gazing at Castle. "But life had other plans."

"Oh my god, girl, tone down the love eyeballs, would ya? This is _my_ wedding," David teases. Then with another nudge, "We'll talk later, 'kay?" and he's off to mingle with the rest of the crowd.

The ceremony is short but lovely; unlike that other wedding years ago, Kate pays attention this time, and is grateful when Castle nudges a tissue into her hand at just the right moment. After she wipes her eyes, she slips her hand into his and squeezes. He rests their joined hands on his knee and smiles softly.

Afterward, there's a reception inside the big house; there's food, and music, and dancing, and laughter. Kate finds herself on the dance floor, wrapped in Castle's arms, both of them smiling a little at the symmetry, remembering their first dance years ago.

"Just think," he says, calling her attention to the head table, where David and his new husband are laughing happily with their parents, "if they had been this accepting back then, we wouldn't be here."

"Crazy, isn't it?" she muses. "How the actions of someone you don't even know can have such an effect on your life." Then she lays her head on his shoulder, and she isn't thinking about David's parents any more. The grief is muted after all this time, but it still has the power to take her by surprise sometimes.

Castle's arms tighten around her and she presses her lips together, feeling a surge of gratitude for how well he knows her.

She thinks about that day in the hospital corridor outside Will Sorenson's room, when Castle pulled her aside to tell her that Clark Murray had found something -- new information about her mother's murder. She leaned against the dingy hospital wall, trembling, and Castle put his hand on her elbow -- a careful substitute for a hug, since they were in public -- and said _We don't have to do anything with this now, if you aren't ready. It's waited this long._ And all she could focus on was the fact that he said _we_. In that moment, it was just as comforting as a hug.

She lifts her head and presses a kiss onto his cheek, shaking off the gloom. He studies her as they sway to the music.

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

Then David is there, with a swift "May I cut in?" and whisking Kate away to whirl across the dance floor in a giddy rush, startling a laugh from her. He slows them back down to the beat of the music and says into her ear, "There's a storage room in the back if you two kids need to sneak away. Though I gotta warn you, you might have to wait your turn."

"Oh my god, David," she gasps, blushing, smacking his arm. "Please don't let Rick hear you saying that. I'm not that girl any more."

"Maybe just a little bit?" But he softens, looking at her face, and grows serious. "We're all grown up, Becks, aren't we? Look at me, married! Who would have thought?"

"It suits you," she tells him, casting a look over at the side where Scott stands watching them with a fond smile.

"And you...." He trails off, glancing over at Castle, then back at her. "Ya done good, honey."

"I know," she murmurs, and hugs him.

As the party winds down, she and Castle say their goodbyes and walk hand in hand down the house's wide front steps toward the driveway.

"Car sex?" he asks hopefully, squeezing her hand. She rolls her eyes.

"For the hundredth time, no."

"Kaaaate," he wheedles. "You know you want to."

"I really don't." The Ferrari is too cramped for sex. Which she has told him repeatedly, but he keeps trying. "We could get a hotel room, though."

"That's not romantic," he pouts.

She bursts out laughing. "You're saying car sex is romantic?" 

He chuckles and pulls her close for a kiss, earning them wolf whistles from tipsy wedding guests at the top of the stairs.

"I love you, Kate," he whispers into her mouth, and she just smiles. She knows he's thinking that if he says it often enough, eventually she'll get comfortable enough to say it back. 

And he's probably right.

She presses into him for another kiss as the valet pulls up next to them in the Ferrari. Then, from her purse comes the chime of her phone, startling them both. Beckett raises her eyebrows as she fishes it out to look at the screen.

"A text from the precinct," she says, surprised. 

"A body?" Castle asks eagerly. She nods. "But you're not on call."

"No." She chews her lower lip. "It must be one of the freaky ones."

"Well, what are we waiting for?" he asks, holding the car door open for her. "Let's get to work."

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you so much to all who read, commented, shared, etc. -- I really appreciate it! I hope you enjoyed the story. This is by far the longest fanfic I've written and it has been a great experience. As usual, please feel free to use the comment box and let me know what you think.


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